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CHARITY    CHANCE 


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CHARITY  CHANCE 


BY 


WALTER    RAYMOND 

AUTHOR   OF 

"gentleman  upcott's  daughter,"  "love  and 

QUIET  LIFE,"   "TRYPHENA   IN   LOVE,"    ETC. 


m 


NEW    YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1896 


Copyright,  1896, 
"By  Walter  Raymond. 


John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridge,  U.  S.A. 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter  Page 

I.     Babblecombe I 

II.     The  Garden  Party 5 

III.  A  Pliant  Hour 28 

IV.  The  Miniature 38 

V.  Mere  Money  Matters     ....  48 

VI.    Alfred  Prentice ']■] 

VII.  The  Pleached  Bower       ....  93 

VIII.     Evermore  Tattling no 

IX.     In  the  Wood 120 

X.     HoNiTON  Lace 131 

XI.     The  Meeting 140 

XII.     Disclosures 155 

XIII.  Charity  gone 182 

XIV.  The  Settlement       204 

XV.  As  Nursery  Governess     ....  219 

XVI.  The  End       .........  240 


Charity  Chance. 

CHAPTER  I. 

BABBLECOMBE. 

To  see  at  a  glance  the  little  hamlet  of 
Babblecombeyou  must  stand  upon  the  crest 
of  the  hill. 

There  in  the  coombe  below,  its  half-a- 
dozen  houses,  thatched  and  whitewashed, 
snugly  lie  together  close,  like  eggs  of  a 
greenfinch  in  a  nest  of  twigs  and  moss. 
The  road  which  wanders  winding  down  the 
hill  runs  straight  in  front.  The  woods, 
which  upon  one  side  cover  the  steep,  reach 
down  to  the  slanting  gardens  at  the  back. 
The  brook  is  so  small  and  overgrown  with 
bushes,  you  would  never  know  it  was  there 
but  for  a  gleam  of  silver  where  it  feeds  the 
mill. 


2  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

You  can  hear  the  humming  of  the  wheel, 
the  shiver  of  the  leaves  when  the  wind 
sweeps  up  the  coombe,  the  startled  chatter 
of  the  jay  as  the  village  boys  run  through 
the  wood.  But  to  every  sense  of  rural 
sweetness  and  every  charm  of  sylvan  sound 
another  joy  is  added.  The  breath  which 
sets  the  gentle  ash  a-whispering  to  the 
sturdy  oak  blows  fresh  with  the  fragrance 
of  the  brine;  and  a  mile  away,  a  rich  gem 
set  in  the  open  gap  between  the  cliffs, 
stretches  the  broad  sea,  sometimes  deep  as 
sapphire  and  sometimes  delicate  as  pearl. 
There  also  are  the  grey  roofs  and  square 
church-tower  of  the  little  town  of  Babble- 
mouth,  and  the  slanting  masts  of  one  Cardiff 
collier,  as  at  low  water  she  lies  in  the 
square  stone  harbour  upon  her  side  at  rest. 

Beyond  the  nest  of  cottages,  but  a  little 
higher  on  the  hillside,  a  small  mansion 
stands  apart.  Whatever  the  essential  feat- 
ure which  constitutes  a  house  a  mansion,  — 
whether  a  winding  staircase  with  an  oaken 
balustrade,  a  yew  hedge,  stables  with  a 
weather-cock,  or  two  gates  and  a  carriage- 


BABBLECOMBE  3 

drive, — this  dwelling  possesses  it  above 
cavil  or  dispute.  A  large  pillared  portico 
amply  supports  that  dignity,  together  with 
the  projecting  bedroom  overhead.  At  first 
sight  this  stately  adornment  conveys  an 
impression  that  the  house  is  mostly  hall. 
Yet  it  is  homely,  too;  for  clematis  climbs 
over  the  front,  and  a  white  rose  reaches  far 
above  the  windows.  The  mansion  faces  full 
toward  the  sea. 

Great  steamships  of  Bristol  and  the 
Welsh  ports  pant  to  and  fro  in  the  dim  dis- 
tance; and  sometimes,  when  spring  tides 
run  strong,  creep  up  the  channel  under  the 
cliffs.  At  summer  noon  the  sunlight  gleams 
on  passing  sails  as  white  as  snow.  At  eve 
some  weather-beaten  brig  or  schooner, 
beating  west,  stands  like  a  blot  upon  the 
glory  of  the  setting  sun.  They  pass  the 
place  unheeding,  their  names  and  destinies 
unknown.  None  but  the  Cardiff  collier 
ever  comes  to  Babblemouth. 

The  tourist  has  not  found  this  haven  of 
rest.  The  cyclist  dare  not  risk  the  hill 
leading  down  to  Babblecombe.     An  atmos- 


4  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

phere  of  old-world  respectability  pervades 
everything,  from  the  smoke,  domestic,  grey 
and  clean  of  commerce,  which  mantles  the 
town  in  mist,  to  the  sweet  shadow  above 
the  open  cottage  door  between  the  honey- 
suckle and  the  eaves. 

The  coombe  is  a  little  heaven  upon  earth, 
where  everything  you  say  will  be  repeated, 
and  everything  you  do  is  known. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE    GARDEN    PARTY. 

"Charity,  just  give  me  your  arm,  dear. 
How  warm  the  sun  is !  I  will  sit  in  the 
shade  by  the  yew  hedge,  and  they  must 
come  to  me  there.  I  hope  the  strawberries 
will  be  enough." 

"  More  than  enough,  dear  aunt,  you  may 
rest  assured,"  said  the  girl,  tenderly. 
Then  she  added,  with  sudden  impatience, 
"Enough  to  have  satisfied  the  children  of 
Israel  in  the  wilderness." 

Leaning  upon  her  silver-headed  ebony 
stick,  but  firmly  grasping  the  girl's  wrist 
with  a  thin  hand,  half  hidden  by  a  lace 
mitten,  Miss  Graham  cautiously  descended 
the  two  steps  where  the  French  window 
opens    upon    the    lawn,    and   they    slowly 


6  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

walked  along  the  path  together,  —  Charity 
Chance  and  this  little  lady  whom  she  called 
"aunt." 

They  were  both  beautiful,  —  Charity  in 
the  glorious  wealth  of  her  young  woman- 
hood, with  everything  to  learn,  and  all  to 
live,  and  before  her  the  broad  land  of  love 
untrodden  and  unexplored;  and  the  little 
cripple,  crooked  and  misshapen  from  her 
birth,  who  had  hobbled  threescore  years 
alone,  brightening  every  step  with  the  light 
of  her  own  soul. 

By  the  border  where  pinks  and  mignon- 
ette were  in  full  flower,  the  woman's  fingers 
pressed  more  closely  upon  the  girl's  arm, 
and  without  a  word  they  stopped. 

"Stand  where  I  can  see  you,  child,"  she 
said,  withdrawing  her  hand  and  pointing 
before  her  with  a  gesture  half  playful,  half 
peremptory. 

The  girl  stepped  a  few  paces  aside,  and, 
laughing,  stood  to  be  looked  at.  Behind 
her  the  grey  stones  of  the  house  peered 
between  the  delicate  tracery  of  a  Virginia 
creeper.     At  her  feet  were  the  flowers. 


THE   GARDEN   PARTY.  7 

"Oh,  yes,  it  is  all  right,"  she  cried,  a 
gleam  of  mischief  flashing  in  her  eyes. 
"And  if  not,   what  matter.?" 

"Yes,"  nodded  the  little  lady,  with  slow 
deliberation, — "yes,  I  like  you  in  white. 
Turn  round  a  little,  dear.  Yes  —  and  I 
like  you  in  the  hat.     It  suits  you  well." 

Her  mind  at  rest  upon  these  matters, 
the  striking  beauty  of  the  girl  forced  itself 
upon  her  heart  afresh. 

"Charity!  You  might  be  a  princess, 
child,"  she  burst  out,  in  sudden  enthusi- 
asm ;  then  she  sighed.  "  But  you  know  the 
wish  of  my  life,  dear.  You  know  the  one 
wish  of  my  life." 

A  rapid  glance  of  understanding,  and 
the  light  faded  from  the  girl's  face.  Her 
large  brown  eyes  became  thoughtful,  and 
she  turned  away  and  looked  toward  the 
hillside. 

It  was  midsummer.  The  sky  was  clear, 
the  air  full  of  light,  and  sunshine  rested 
upon  hill  and  cliff.  Only,  far  across  the 
sea,  a  rising  cloud,  capped  with  gold, 
loomed  through  the  grey  haze.     The  woods 


8  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

were  still  as  if  asleep;  the  birds  silent,  as 
they  often  are  in  the  heat  of  a  summer 
afternoon.      Nature  was  in  suspense. 

Charity  stood  as  in  a  picture,  without 
word  or  sign  of  answer,  — a  girl  of  nineteen 
years,  tall  and  shapely  as  a  lily,  her  frock 
of  white  nun's  veiling  clinging  around  her 
shoulders,  and  falling  soft  as  snow  upon 
her  bosom.  The  broad  Leghorn  hat  cast  a 
soft  shadow  across  her  cheek,  but  could  not 
altogether  keep  the  sunlight  from  the  red- 
brown  hair  that  hung  in  waves  upon  her 
forehead. 

Her  aunt's  appeal,  pathetic  in  the  love 
which  prompted  it,  touched  no  new  note. 
The  hope,  that  could  almost  bring  tears 
into  the  little  lady's  eyes,  had  been  familiar 
for  many  a  day.  Tt  could  not  startle;  but 
the  heightened  colour  on  the  girl's  cheek 
and  her  quickened  breathing  betrayed  the 
agitation  it  had  power  to  arouse. 

"Well,  well,  child.  Come  along."  A 
sigh  —  an  impatient  beckoning  of  the  long 
thin  fingers  —  and  side  by  side,  as  before, 
they  walked  along  the  path. 


THE   GARDEN    PARTY.  9 

The  yew  hedge  beginning  by  a  corner  of 
the  house  reached  the  whole  length  of  the 
lawn.  Beside  it  garden-seats  and  chairs 
had  been  brought  in  readiness  into  the 
shade.  To  the  largest  of  these,  an  arm- 
chair with  a  high  back  of  carved  oak,  raised 
with  a  cushion  and  provided  with  a  foot- 
stool, Miss  Graham  solemnly  ascended, 
and  seated  herself  in  state.  By  this  device, 
at  which  some  people  smiled,  the  poor  little 
lady  sought  to  cover  the  unkindness  of 
Nature  by  concealing  her  deficiency  of 
stature.  In  her  left  hand  she  still  held 
the  silver-headed  stick. 

Her  manner  of  dress  she  had  not  varied 
for  many  years. 

A  soft  black  satin  gown  open  at  the 
throat;  an  embroidered  muslin  kerchief, 
crossed  and  fastened  with  a  miniature  in  an 
oval  frame  of  twisted  gold,  —  the  portrait  of 
a  woman,  young  and  beautiful,  with  feat- 
ures and  expression  strikingly  like  her  own; 
a  mushroom  hat  of  plain  black  straw  tied 
with  black  ribbons  underneath  the  chin. 

The    quaintness    of    this    unpretentious 


10  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

attire  was  in  keeping  with  the  sweet  sim- 
plicity of  the  face,  which  smiled  upon 
Charity  with  the  unchanging  serenity  of  a 
Madonna  in  the  full  contentment  of  mater- 
nity. Her  forehead  was  broad  and  smooth, 
with  fewer  wrinkles  than  her  years  might 
claim.  Her  hair,  once  fair,  was  not  yet 
white ;  and  out  of  her  frank  grey  eyes  looked 
a  soul,  alert  and  happy  in  the  confidence 
that  it  could  see  nothing  but  good. 

The  girl's  arm,  taken  for  support,  was 
still  retained  from  affection. 

"  Listen,  Charity,  dear !  What  is  that  ?  " 
she  suddenly  cried,  in  alarm. 

From  across  the  sea,  like  a  warning  mur- 
mur of  discontent,  came  the  sound  of  dis- 
tant thunder,  and  they  saw  that  the  cloud 
on  the  horizon  had  risen  rapidly. 

"  It  is  a  long  way  off.  They  have  it  in 
Wales,"  laughed  the  girl,  in  consolation. 

"  If  it  should  rain  —  " 

The  little  lady  stopped  abruptly,  and 
raised  her  hands  in  horror  at  the  thought. 
"  But  somebody  is  coming,  child.  I  can 
hear  wheels  on  the  road,  and  John  Sprake 


THE   GARDEN   PARTY.  ii 

is  hurrying  to  open  his  gates.  Perhaps  the 
Babblemouth  people  and  Graham.  Run 
down  to  the  door,  dear,  and  bring  tliem 
round  here." 

As  Charity  passed  along  the  path,  a  look 
of  joy  and  exultation,  such  as  belongs  only 
to  a  dream  of  love,  flitted  across  the 
cripple's  face. 

Through  the  gates  of  Babblecombe  House, 
now  open  wide,  trotted  a  one-horsed  wag- 
gonette, bringing  the  first  arrivals  to  Miss 
Graham's  garden  party.  But  not  the  Bab- 
blemouth people  and  Graham.  Merely  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Mortimer,  rector  of  Babblemouth, 
round-faced  and  clean-shaven,  with  his  tall, 
lean  wife,  and  a  judicious  selection  from 
his  numerous  daughters. 

"Put  him  where  he  won't  get  kicked, 
John,"  cried  he,  throwing  the  reins  upon 
the  back  of  the  most  patient  beast  in 
Christendom. 

Then  he  greeted  Charity  with  condescen- 
sion. "Oh!  How  do  you  do.  Miss  Chance.?  " 
he  asked,  almost  as  if  her  presence  were  a 
surprise. 


12  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"In  the  garden,  dear,  I  suppose,"  piped 
Mrs.  Mortimer,  with  that  rich  smile  which 
creams  iqDon  the  countenance  when  the 
milk  of  human  kindness  has  turned  a  little 
sour.  She  pecked  the  girl's  cheek  with  her 
sharp  face,  and  marched  away  as  if  she  were 
at  home. 

"Good  afternoon,  Charity,"  said  Theo- 
dosia,  the  eldest. 

"Good  afternoon,"  echoed  Amy  and 
Amelia. 

They  were  shy  of  Charity  Chance,  per- 
haps a  little  afraid  of  her. 

Tall  and  straight,  and  cool  even  in  that 
hot  weather,  they  shouldered  their  tennis 
rackets,  and  followed  their  father  up  the 
garden  path,  like  grenadiers  in  single  file. 

"  Amazons ! "  muttered  the  girl,  con- 
temptuously, between  her  teeth,  "  who  never 
read  a  line  in  their  lives." 

And  now  the  guests  flocked  in  apace. 
Carriages  came  crawling  down  the  hill,  or 
whisking  along  the  level  road  from  the 
town,  until  they  were  packed  in  the  little 
courtyard  by  the  stable  close  as  mere  carts 


THE   GARDEN   PARTY.  13 

at  a  fair.  The  lawn  was  crowded  with 
people ;  lovers  already  wandered  in  the 
laurel  labyrinth  by  the  foot  of  the  wood. 
It  would  seem  that  everybody  of  distinction 
in  the  neighbourhood  was  there,  —  colonels 
of  militia,  captains  of  volunteers  with  their 
ladies,  even  a  Colonial  bishop  in  gaiters, 
stooping  to  play  at  bowls.  Everybody 
either  great  or  impressive  —  and  yet  little 
Miss  Graham's  face  became  anxious  as  she 
glanced  again  toward  the  gate. 

At  last  there  dashed  up  to  the  portico  a 
splendid  landau  drawn  by  a  pair  of  bays  and 
bearing  on  the  panel  a  shield  the  size  of 
a  dinner-plate.  Its  blazonry  had  often 
awakened  the  curiosity  and  excited  the 
admiration  of  Babblemouth.  It  was  under- 
stood to  be  quarterly:  ist  and  4th  az.,  3 
stags  passant  ar.  for  Poltimore,  2nd  and  3rd 
sa. ,  3  ducks  plucked  and  trussed,  or  beaked, 
legged  and  skewered  gules  for  Briggs.  As 
Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs  slowly  descended  and 
assisted  his  second  wife  (the  first  had  been 
merely  Mrs.  Poltimore,  and  passed  away 
before  he  had  assumed  the  arms  and  dignity 


14  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

of  Briggs)  to  alight,  many  an  eye  was  turned 
to  look  at  them.  Even  the  bishop  himself 
stood  erect,  the  bowl  poised  upon  his  ten 
fingers,  and  suffered  a  grave  smile  to  suffuse 
his  classic  face. 

For  Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs  was  a  man  of 
the  finest  presence.  Six  feet  tall  at  least, 
and  proportionately  portly  and  important. 
And  he  wore  a  spacious  waistcoat  of  snowy 
white,  and  a  long,  old-fashioned  gold  chain 
around  his  neck,  and  a  broad  blue  necktie, 
with  white  spots  on  it,  tied  in  a  bow,  and 
shepherd's  plaid  trousers  and  spats,  and 
the  blandest  expression  that  ever  veiled  a 
mortal  face.  He  closely  followed  Mrs. 
Poltimore-Briggs,  who  was  small,  sharp- 
featured,  intrepid  in  social  enterprise,  and 
so  truly  British  that  she  never  knew  when 
she  was  beaten,  and  never  gave  up  when  she 
was  snubbed.  And  as  they  threaded  their 
way  through  the  throng  of  guests,  he  bowed 
and  nodded  upon  all  sides.  For  Mr.  Polti- 
more-Briggs was  possessed  of  the  most 
admirable  manners,  —  a  different  manner 
for  each  different  man ;  so  that  toward  the 


THE   GARDEN   PARTY.  15 

great  he  behaved  with  deference,  and  to  the 
lesser  folk  with  a  dignity  commensurate 
with  his  great  worth. 

Close  behind  them  came  a  young  man  in 
tennis  flannels  and  a  blazer  of  blue. 

So  the  Babblemouth  people,  as  she  had 
called  them,  were  come  at  last.  Impatient 
to  watch  them  upon  their  way  toward  her, 
Miss  Graham  sat  erect  upon  her  throne,  and 
her  bright  eyes  sparkled  with  delight.  But 
the  respectful  bow  and  blandishment  of 
Poltimore-Briggs,  who  called  her  Helen, 
and  in  his  most  affectionate  manner  inquired 
after  her  health,  passed  unheeded.  The 
voice  of  Mrs.  Poltimore-Briggs,  shrill  in 
respectful  explanation,  —  "  It  was  really  so 
unfortunate,  but  just  as  we  were  ready  and 
the  carriage  absolutely  coming  round  to  the 
door,  in  came  Sir  John,  and,  of  course, 
having  ridden  ten  miles,  Henry  could  do  no 
less  than  —  "  although  audible  to  the  sur- 
rounding country,  ran  on  unheard.  Miss 
Graham's  eyes  and  ears  and  thoughts  were 
all  for  this  young  man. 

"Graham!"    she   said    eagerly,    holding 


i6  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

out  both  hands.  "So  you  have  come 
back." 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Helen,  I  came  down  yester- 
day." 

For  a  full  minute  she  looked  at  him 
attentively.  "  How  well  you  are  looking, 
boy!"  she  cried;  and  carried  away  by  an 
impulse  of  affection,  she  placed  a  hand 
upon  each  shoulder,  and,  drawing  him  down 
toward  her,  warmly  kissed  him  upon  both 
cheeks. 

The  salute  was  not  only  unexpected  but 
loud.  The  young  man  stood  disconcerted, 
and  blushed  as  if  he  had  been  smacked. 
He  had  an  honest,  open  face,  not  over- 
clever,  but  fresh  with  sound  health  and 
ruddy  from  the  open  air.  Then,  as  he 
smiled  good-humouredly  at  the  absurdity  of 
the  situation,  a  resemblance  between  him- 
self and  his  aunt  became  very  noticeable. 
He  had  the  same  frank  look,  the  same  grey 
eyes.  His  hair,  which  was  clipped  quite 
short,  was  fair,  like  the  hair  in  the  minia- 
ture. 

"Sit  down.     Sit  down  and  tell  me  about 


THE   GARDEN   PARTY.  17 

yourself,"  she  commanded  in  her  quick 
way,  pointing  to  the  vacant  chair  by  her 
side. 

He  obeyed  at  once.  But  his  eyes  wan- 
dered around  the  garden,  narrowly  scanning 
the  groups  of  people,  as  if  in  search  of 
some  one  whom  he  could  not  find. 

Then  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm, 
and  there  was  a  little  falter  in  her  voice 
as  she  whispered,  — 

"  But  I  must  not  keep  you.  You  have 
not  seen  Charity  yet.  Come  back  and 
spend  the  evening  when  everybody  is  gone. 
There  she  is  • —  in  white  —  with  the  bishop 
—  by  the  rhododendron." 

He  caught  sight  of  her  at  last.  A  glance 
of  understanding,  a  quick  nod  of  dismissal 
from  his  aunt,  and  he  rose  and  walked 
hastily  across  the  lawn.  She  watched  him 
tenderly  as  he  spoke  to  the  girl.  And 
Charity  turned  and  smiled,  and  looked 
quite  glad.  As  they  slowly  strolled  away 
together  and  disappeared  amongst  the  trees, 
tears  almost  filled  the  little  cripple's  eyes. 
It  was  easy  to  guess  the  wish  of  her  life. 
2 


1 8  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

But  the  cloud  had  risen  above  the  cliff, 
and  now  the  sunlight  faded  from  the  hill- 
side. A  sudden  gust  of  wind  rushed  up 
the  coombe,  and  set  the  woods  a-rustling 
with  the  rumour  of  a  coming  storm.  Then 
something  struck  Miss  Graham  smartly 
upon  the  hand,  and  she  looked  down  to  find 
that  her  mitten  was  quite  wet.  And  the 
bishop  fancied  he  felt  something,  too,  for 
he  turned  his  classic  shaven  face  toward 
heaven  to  ascertain  whether  it  really  rained. 
There  was  no  room  for  doubt.  A  minute 
later  the  storm  came  down  in  torrents,  and 
a  sudden  consternation  seized  the  guests. 

Poor  Miss  Graham! 

Dowagers  from  the  seats  beside  the  yew 
hedge  set  stately  sail;  old  boys  came  puff- 
ing like  steam-tugs  down  the  gravel  paths, 
and  men  and  maids  went  tacking  in  all 
directions,  making  for  the  house;  but  she 
sat  still. 

Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs  advanced  with 
stately  strides  to  Miss  Graham's  throne. 
"My  dear  Helen,"  he  pleaded,  in  a  tone  of 
deep  solicitude,  "permit  me  to  offer  you  an 
arm." 


THE   GARDEN   PARTY.  19 

"No,  no,  thank  you,"  she  replied  impa- 
tiently. "  Let  Sprake  bring  round  my 
chair.  Tell  Sprake  to  bring  round  my 
chair." 

She  was  keenly  sensitive,  and  shrank 
from  showing  her  infirmities.  For  the 
world  she  would  not  be  seen  to  walk  even 
those  few  yards.  People  would  pity  her, 
and  the  thought  hurt  her  pride.  But  when 
at  last  she  was  solemnly  wheeled  to  the 
French  window,  the  drawing-room  had 
already  filled  to  overflowing;  the  hall  was 
crowded,  too,  and  guests  stood  under  the 
portico  disconsolately  watching  the  pelting 
rain,  which  pattered  down  more  and  more. 
Mere  men  might  laugh  to  see  the  heavens 
play  this  practical  joke.  But  what  can  be 
done  with  more  people  than  the  house  can 
hold.''  The  women  understood  this,  and, 
having  shaken  the  raindrops  from  their 
skirts,  whispered  on  all  sides  with  deep 
feeling,  — 

"Poor  Miss  Graham  !  Poor  Miss 
Graham ! " 

The    lawn    was    empty    now,     suddenly 


20  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

depopulated  as  a  billiard-table  after  an 
eight  stroke.  Only  two  people  remained 
out  of  doors.  Like  balls  in  the  same 
pocket,  they  waited  side  by  side  under 
shelter  of  a  tree.  The  white  frock  of 
Charity  Chance  and  the  flannels  of  Graham 
Poltimore  stood  clearly  out  from  the  sombre 
shadows  of  the  copper  beech.  But  the  girl 
was  ill  at  ease.  She  stepped  hastily  to  the 
edge  of  the  overhanging  branches,  and 
glanced  up  at  the  sky.  A  shower  of  rain- 
drops fell  upon  her,  as  leaning  forward  she 
struck  the  slanting  leaves  with  the  brim  of 
her  broad  straw  hat.  The  clouds  looked 
hopeless  and  heavy  as  lead,  and  the  storm 
poured  down  in  torrents.  Then  she  sighed 
as  if  she  also  echoed  the  sorrow,  — 

"Poor  Miss  Graham!" 

The  rector  and  the  bishop  had  fore- 
gathered in  the  portico.  The  bishop  had 
but  recently  returned  from  abroad,  and  may 
be  pardoned  the  perplexity  which  knit  his 
bushy  eyebrows  as  he  looked  many  years 
back  into  the  past. 

"I  —  eh  —  I  remember  old  Dr.  Graham. 


THE   GARDEN   PARTY.  21 

He  was  a  physician  at  Bath.  A  rather 
celebrated  man  in  his  day.  But  I  can  only 
recall  —  if  my  memory  serve  me  aright  — 
two  daughters.  One  of  them  our  good 
friend  of  to-day,  and  the  other  much 
younger,  and  a  very  beautiful  girl  —  eh  —  as 
was  universally  admitted.  She  married 
Poltimore,  much  against  her  father's  con- 
sent. A  sort  of  —  eh  —  runaway  match,  in 
fact,  which  attracted  a  great  deal  of  atten- 
tion at  the  time.  Who,  then,  is  this  young 
lady  —  this  niece  whom  they  call  Charity  .-*  " 

The  rector  drew  closer,  as  if  not  caring 
to  be  overheard. 

"A  child  whom  Miss  Graham  adopted 
and  brought  up.  She  lives  with  her  as  a 
sort  of  companion. " 

"And,  eh,  no  relation?" 

"Dear  me,  no  —  " 

"She  seemed  to  me  a  very  charming 
young  creature.''  "  interrupted  the  bishop  in 
a  tone  of  inquiry,  as  if,  on  such  a  matter, 
his  opinion  might  need  corroboration. 

"Yes.  Yes,  she  is,"  replied  the  rector, 
briefly,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 


22  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"And  are  they  going  to  make  a  match  of 
it?"  laughed  the  bishop,  pointing  with 
elderly  pleasantry  toward  the  copper  beech. 

"I  fear  it  is  extremely  likely.  Capital 
young  fellow,  Poltimore.  Might  do  a  great 
deal  better.  Miss  Graham  has  no  one  else 
with  any  claim  upon  her  —  no  one  what- 
ever."  Then  the  rector  drew  closer  still, 
and  his  voice  sank  into  a  whisper.  "  It  is 
rather  a  romantic  story.     The  child  was  —  " 

"  Charity  Chance !  Has  any  one  seen 
Miss  Chance.''  Miss  Graham  is  asking  for 
Miss  Chance. "  It  was  Theodosia  Mortimer 
who  asked,  and  her  voice  sounded  quite 
eager. 

This  inquiry,  repeated  by  every  tongue, 
cut  short  the  rector's  tale.  The  bishop 
glanced  at  the  weather,  stepped  with  alac- 
rity into  the  hall,  and  took  an  umbrella 
from  the  stand.  Thus  equipped,  he  gaily 
embarked  upon  his  mission.  To  the  admi- 
ration of  everybody,  and  the  glory  of  his 
calves,  he  positively  ran.  He  placed  his 
paternal  arm  round  her  shoulder  to  hold 
the    umbrella    over    her    head,    and    thus 


THE   GARDEN   PARTY.       •    23 

Charity  was  conveyed  into  the  house  with 
a  tenderness  and  gallantry  very  beautiful 
in  gaiters  and  a  shovel  hat. 

But  that  was  always  the  way.  Strangers 
who  talked  to  Charity  and  looked  into  her 
frank  eyes  felt  a  kindness  for  the  girl. 

In  the  hall  she  took  off  her  hat,  revealing 
the  luxuriant  wealth  of  her  rich  hair.  She 
laughed  to  see  the  people  sitting  in  pairs 
upon  the  stairs,  as  they  sometimes  do  at  a 
dance.  But  everybody  was  making  merry 
of  the  mishap.  People  made  room  for  her 
as  she  pushed  her  way  to  the  other  end  of 
the  drawing-room,  where  the  little  cripple 
was  now  installed.  They  turned  to  talk  of 
her  when  she  had  passed.  An  atmosphere 
of  wonder  and  curiosity  surrounded  this 
adopted  daughter  of  the  rich  Miss  Graham. 
The  girl  knew  this,  and  it  made  her  angry. 

"Charity,  dear"  —  the  lace  mittens  were 
raised  in  a  humorous  gesture  of  despair  — 
"we  must  do  something  for  them  —  I  want 
you  to  sing  at  once,  child.  But  ballads, 
dear.  Something  quite  simple,  that  they 
will  all  like." 


24  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"*  Home,  sweet  Home,'  I  should  think," 
laughed  the  girl,  impatiently. 

Upon  the  piano  was  a  volume  of  "  Songs 
of  the  West,"  a  recent  collection  of  the  old 
ballads  of  that  country,  saved  by  a  friendly 
hand  at  the  last  moment,  ere  they  sank  into 
oblivion.  She  had  been  singing  them  to 
please  her  own  fancy.  They  v/ere  quaint, 
and  fragrant  of  an  old-world  simplicity  for 
which  she  was  always  looking  and  loved. 
Mrs.  Poltimore-Briggs,  who,  by  the  bye, 
had  once  been  a  governess,  volunteered  to 
play  the  accompaniment. 

The  girl  stood  by  the  piano,  facing  the 
guests.  She  was  restless  and  angry.  It 
was  a  relief  to  stand  up  and  do  something 
—  and  she  sang  her  best.  She  had  been 
well  taught,  and  her  voice  was  low  and 
sweet.  Through  the  open  door  it  filled  the 
hall  with  the  stairs,  and  even  in  the  portico 
they  could  hear  every  syllable,  — 

"  Down  in  the  mead  the  other  day, 
As  carelessly  I  went  my  way, 
And  plucked  flowers  red  and  blue, 
I  little  thought  what  love  could  do. 


THE   GARDEN    PARTY.  25 

"  I  saw  a  rose  with  ruddy  blush 
And  thrust  my  hand  into  the  bush, 
I  pricked  my  fingers  to  the  bone, 
I  would  I  'd  left  that  rose  alone! 

"  I  wish  !  I  wish  !  but  't  is  in  vain, 
I  wish  I  had  my  heart  again  1 
With  silver  chain  and  diamond  locks 
I  'd  fasten  it  in  a  golden  box." 

There  is  a  tender  melancholy  about  these 
old  songs,  both  in  the  simple  words  and 
melody,  which  is  irresistible,  and  goes 
straight  to  the  heart.  At  the  first  note  the 
conversation  sank  into  a  whisper  and  then 
died.  As  Charity  finished,  there  was  loud 
applause,  and  quite  a  chorus  of  voices:  "If 
it  is  not  asking  too  much,  Miss  Chance.  If 
it  is  not  troubling  you,  Charity  —  " 

But  the  girl  was  as  ready  to  sing  as  the 
birds  in  spring,  from  mere  love  of  it.  And 
so  she  went  on,  — 

"  The  lily  it  shall  be  thy  smock, 
The  jonquil  shoe  thy  feet ; 
Thy  gown  shall  be  the  ten-week  stock, 
To  make  thee  fair  and  sweet ;  " 

until  at  last  the  rain  had  passed  over,  and 


26  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

again  there  came  a  sound  of  wheels  upon 
the  gravel  drive.  Then  Mrs.  Poltimore- 
Briggs  was  carried  away  by  her  lord ;  the 
rector's  lady  went  clucking  around  gather- 
ing her  daughters  under  her  wing,  and  they 
filed  off  as  they  had  come;  the  bishop  was 
translated,  and  the  rest  went  home.  But 
not  one  failed  to  congratulate  Miss  Graham., 
and  pour  praises  upon  Charity  Chance. 
"  Thank  you  so  much"  —  "  Such  a  great 
treat"  —  "But  I  am  not  sure  that  the  last 
quite  suits  you,  Charity,"  put  in  Theodosia. 

"  Capital !  Very  much  obliged.  Miss 
Chance.  Very  much  obliged,  indeed," 
blurted  the  colonel  of  militia. 

"Very  charming,"  smiled  the  bishop. 
But  then  the  men  admired  Charity,  and 
meant  it. 

"Come  here,  child.  Come  here,"  beck- 
oned Miss  Graham,  when  they  were  all 
gone.  "  Sit  down  on  a  corner  of  the  foot- 
stool. I  am  proud  of  you,  dear.  I  am  so 
proud  of  you." 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute,  whilst 
the  long,  thin  fingers  kept  stroking  the 
bright  hair. 


THE   GARDEN   PARTY.  27 

"And  is  not  Graham  looking  well  ?  Do 
you  know,  I  think  he  gets  better  looking 
every  time  he  comes  down.  Not  so  many 
freckles  —  and  the  moustache  improves  him, 
too.  But  he  has  such  a  nice  face  —  an  open 
honest*face  —  an  English  face." 

The  little  lady  brightened  with  enthu- 
siasm as  she  pictured  it.  Then  she  bent 
down  and  kissed  the  girl's  white  forehead. 

"I  asked  him  to  come  back  by  and  by." 

But  Charity  did  not  speak.  She  knew 
the  inner  meaning  of  all  this  too  well.  And 
although  the  words  were  not  repeated,  every 
touch,  every  caress,  and  every  smile  was 
only  an  echo  of  the  familiar  phrase,  — 

"  But  you  know  the  wish  of  my  life.  You 
know  the  one  wish  of  my  life." 


CHAPTER   III. 

A   PLIANT   HOUR. 

Upon  the  ceasing  of  the  rain  followed  the 
sweetest  eventide  that  ever  lighted  upon 
hill  or  sank  beyond  the  sea.  The  pinks 
and  mignonette  were  beaten  down,  the 
petals  from  the  white  rose  lay  strewn  upon 
the  ground.  Yet  the  air  never  smelt  so 
sweet,  for  the  brown  earth  itself  breathed 
forth  a  freshness  and  fragrance  of  its  own. 
And  every  bird  that  had  a  tongue,  from  the 
thrush  upon  the  tree-top  to  the  blackbird 
hidden  in  the  holly  bush,  burst  into  song. 

So  the  party  was  over  —  thank  goodness 
for  that ! 

Miss  Graham  had  gone  upstairs,  and 
Charity  stole  into  the  garden.  She  was 
quivering  with  emotion,  and  longed  for  the 
fresh  air  to  cool  her  throbbing  temples. 


A   PLIANT   HOUR.  29 

Up  on  a  ladder  by  the  window  was  John 
Sprake,  putting  a  nail  where  the  magnolia 
had  been  torn  away  by  the  storm. 

"Massey  'pon  us,  Missie!  There  were  a 
pity,  to  be  sure,"  he  shouted,  at  the  top  of 
his  voice.  "Why  so  much  as  ever  you'd 
'a'  had  time  to  zwank  round  like,  and  show 
one  another  your  new  vrocks,  when  comed 
down  cats  an'  dogs.  Made  'em  turn  tail 
an'  run  to  hole  like  rabbits.  Iss  did.  Ay, 
so  did,  sure  'nough." 

A  fine  philosopher  and  observer  of  human 
manners,  John  Sprake.  He  was  at  Babble- 
combe  before  Charity,  and  she  liked  to  talk 
to  him.  But  now  she  hurried  by  without 
reply. 

"Ay,  put  'em  out  a  bit.  I'll  warr'nt 
did.  So  'twould,  sure  'nough,"  he  chuckled 
to  himself,  as  he  turned  to  the  wall. 

She  strode  quickly  into  the  shrubbery, 
where  the  high  bushes  hid  her  on  all  sides. 
Alone  at  last,  her  pent-up  indignation  found 
a  voice.  What  did  these  people  mean  who 
looked  upon  her  so  coldly?  They  were  no 
better   than   she.     Better,    indeed !     There 


30  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

was  no  one  of  them  could  do  anything  she 
could  not  do.  And  yet,  in  some  indefinable 
way,  they  slighted  her  as  a  person  of  small 
account.  Because  she  was  an  orphan  — 
adopted,  brought  up  on  charity.  Her  spirit 
rose  in  revolt  against  the  narrowness  of  this 
little  Babblemouth  world.  She  hated  them 
all  —  every  one.  Her  heart  told  her  there 
was  a  nobility  of  which  they  knew  nothing 
—  somewhere,  beyond  this  little  coombe  — 
in  the  great  city,  perhaps.  She  was  not  one 
with  these  people.  She  was  not  of  the  same 
blood.  She  longed  to  meet  a  human  soul 
suffering  disadvantage,  to  give  sympathy  and 
receive  it.  As  to  Theodosia  Mortimer,  sJie 
wanted  Graham  Poltimore,  and  made  eyes 
at  him.  That  was  at  the  bottom  of  her 
behaviour. 

She  walked  restlessly  on.  At  the  end  of 
the  path  a  wicket  gate  opened  into  the 
wood,  and  against  this  she  leaned.  The 
place  was  quite  solitary,  and  she  remained  so 
still  that  a  rabbit  in  the  copse  went  on  feed- 
ing undisturbed,  a  few  yards  from  her  feet. 

Graham   Poltimore   loved    her    madly  — 


A   PLIANT   HOUR.  31 

she  had  no  doubt  of  it.  He  gave  her  no 
peace,  and  she  could  no  longer  procrasti- 
nate. On  the  April  morning  with  the  sun 
shining  between  the  clouds,  when  he  came 
to  say  "Good-by,"  his  last  whisper  had 
been  of  love.  To-day,  on  his  return,  his 
first  words  beneath  the  copper  beech  were  a 
passionate  appeal. 

It  was  heartless  to  refuse  a  love  like  that. 
She  thought  she  could  almost  love  him  if 
he  would  only  leave  her  alone,  or  do  some- 
thing more  than  hunt  or  shoot,  and  hope 
that  he  might  just  scrape  through  —  as  he 
called  it  —  something  noble  and  great  —  that 
she  could  worship.  She  would  have  him  a 
scholar  —  a  soldier.  In  fact  she  did  not 
want  to  marry  —  unless  — 

To  hear  the  Mortimer  girls,  one  would 
think  there  was  no  aim  in  life  but  to  catch 
a  husband  by  hook  or  by  crook,  and  she 
hated  that.  Her  dream  was  of  an  irresisti- 
ble passion,  carrying  all  before  it.  Then 
an  icy  fear  swept  over  her  like  a  northeast 
wind.  She  had  no  feeling,  no  heart,  no 
soul,   no  gratitude.     That  was  why  people 


32  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

were  cold  to  her.  That  was  why  she  did 
not  return  Graham's  love. 

Yet  surely  she  did  love  Graham  Poltimore. 
How  could  it  be  otherwise  .-*  When  last 
winter  a  returning  huntsman,  riding  slowly 
through  the  coombe,  left  word  that  young 
Poltimore  had  been  thrown  and  hurt,  did 
her  heart  hesitate.''  She  blushed  to  think 
how  she  had  run  breathless  into  Babble- 
mouth  —  so  that  even  now  people  tattled 
and  laughed.  They  said  she  wanted  to 
catch  Graham  Poltimore  —  the  fools ! 
Sour-faced  Mrs.  Mortimer  warned  her  of 
this — out  of  kindness,   as  she  said. 

The  voice  of  John  Sprake  broke  in  upon 
her  thoughts.  Her  ear  could  not  distin- 
guish the  words,  but  his  sing-song  shouting 
seemed  to  fill  the  coombe.  Miss  Graham 
might  be  asking  for  her.      She  must  go  in. 

At  thought  of  the  little  cripple,  tears 
came  into  the  girl's  eyes. 

The  golden  eventide  rested  like  a  crown 
upon  the  head  of  the  wood ;  and  every  sen- 
timent which  could  soften  her  into  acquies- 
cence burst  into  life  and  warmth  within 
her  bosom. 


A   PLIANT   HOUR.  33 

Dear  Miss  Graham !  How  good  she  had 
always  been !  And  this  marriage  would  be 
the  one  perfect  joy  of  her  life,  —  the  happy 
ending  to  an  idyl  which  was  no  mere  dream 
of  the  imagination,  but  a  story  in  living 
flesh  and  blood.  For  Miss  Graham  had 
created  her  —  made  her  what  she  was  — 
brought  her  up  as  a  flower  with  infinite 
tenderness,  sheltered  from  the  wind  of 
adversity  and  protected  from  the  biting 
frost  of  the  world's  unkindness.  For  such 
a  friend  could  any  sacrifice  be  too  great .'' 
And  she  was  capable  of  sacrifice  —  adored 
it,  longed  for  it  —  some  great  and  noble 
sacrifice!  If  he  had  been  the  cripple  she 
would  have  married  him  without  a  moment's 
doubt,  only  to  comfort  his  crumpled  form 
against  her  bosom. 

Suddenly  the  rabbit  in  the  pathway  raised 
itself  alert  and  listened. 

If  she  married  him,  her  future  was 
secure.  He,  at  least,  did  not  care  who  she 
was  and  whence  she  came.  He  was  too 
generous  for  that.  How  angry  all  the 
Mortimers  would  be  —  at  first,  and  then 
obsequious.  3 


34  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

There  came  a  quick  step  upon  the  gravel. 
She  turned,  and  he  was  by  her  side. 

He  had  walked  quickly,  and  his  face 
glowed  with  health  and  careless  irrespon- 
sibility. 

"  Sprake  told  me  you  were  in  the  garden, 
Charity,"  he  burst  out,  "and  I  came  to  find 
you  at  once.  I  was  afraid  you  might  be 
indoors,  and  that  I  should  not  see  you  alone 
at  all." 

"I  was  just  going  in,"  she  interrupted 
him  nervously,  turning  toward  the  house. 

*'  But  not  now.  Not  until  you  have  told 
me.  Charity,  I  think  of  nothing  else.  It 
is  the  dream  of  my  life.  I  cannot  live 
without  you.  And  I  cannot  go  on  like  this 
without  knowing.  If  it  is  hopeless,  you 
must  say  so.  I  come  and  go  —  at  Easter 
I  came  down  and  went  again ;  but  you  man- 
age —  you  always  manage  —  to  evade  me. 
I  cannot  go  on  like  this.  If  you  know  you 
will  never  love  me,  I  will  go  away  and 
never  come  back.  I  will  turn  my  back 
upon  the  place  forever  and  go  abroad.  I 
do  not  care  what  happens  to  me  —  whether 
I  live  or  die  —  " 


A   PLIANT   HOUR.  35 

In  his  excitement,  words  failed  him.  He 
had  spoken  with  the  wild  exaggeration  of 
young  romance,  and  yet  it  was  all  so  real. 
How  madly  he  worshipped  her  !  A  womanly 
pity  pleaded  for  him  against  her  doubt.  It 
were  no  better  than  heartless  cruelty  to 
remain  unmoved  by  such  a  love  as  that. 

"But  I  am  not  sure,"  she  faltered,  "that 
I  —  that  I  care  for  you  enough  for  that." 

"But  you  love  me  a  little." 

"I  am  very  fond  of  you,  Graham,"  she 
replied,  in  a  firmer  voice.  "You  have 
always  known  that.  But  it  seems  different. 
Not  like  what  you  mean.  Not  like  what 
you  say  you  feel  yourself." 

"But  that  will  come  —  that  will  come," 
he  urged  eagerly. 

"  If  I  could  be  sure  of  that !  " 

The  cry  leapt  straight  from  her  heart, 
and  was  tender  with  regret.  There  were  so 
many  reasons  why  she  should  love,  that  this 
coldness  troubled  her. 

"Charity!"  he  cried  passionately,  "how 
can  you  doubt  it }  You  do  love  me,  I  know 
you  do.      I  can  hear  it  in  your  voice ;  and 


36  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

you  say  yourself  you  are  fond  of  me.  We 
were  made  for  each  other,  and  it  is  the  one 
wish  of  poor  Aunt  Helen's  heart.  Why 
should  we  delay  .-*  It  is  not  as  if  we  could 
marry  to-morrow,  and  I  were  asking  you 
to  bind  yourself  beyond  all  recall.  But 
promise  me  now.  Let  us  go  in  and  tell 
her  to-night.  She  will  be  glad  beyond 
everything.  And  I  will  make  you  happy, 
Charity.  I  love  you  so  much  I  cannot  help 
making  you  happy." 

His  words  almost  persuaded  her;  but  she 
remained  silent,  and  turned  to  lean  against 
the  gate  again. 

"  Let  me  tell  her,  Charity  —  '* 

"No,  no,"  she  answered,  in  a  voice  low 
but  very  clear.  "  Do  not  say  a  word, 
Graham.  But  if  you  want  to  please  me 
very  much,  go  away  quite  early,  and  I  will 
tell  her  myself." 

He  could  scarcely  believe  in  his  good 
fortune. 

"  Then  —  then,  we  are  engaged .''  "  he 
cried. 

"  Yes.     I  suppose  we  are  engaged. " 


A   PLIANT   HOUR.  37 

He  threw  his  arm  around  her  neck  and 
would  have  kissed  her.  But  she  drew 
back. 

"  Not  now  —  not  now,  Graham  dear, "  she 
said  quickly.  "  Come,  let  us  go  into  the 
house.     There  is  the  bell." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE    MINIATURE. 

They  were  in  the  drawing-room,  and  a 
maid  was  bringing  in  the  lamp,  when 
Graham  Poltimore  rose  to  go.  He  had 
scarcely  spoken  to  his  father  since  his 
return,  he  said;  and  Miss  Graham  accepted 
the  explanation  without  one  word  of  ques- 
tion. During  dinner  conversation  had  been 
scanty,  and  the  little  lady's  quick  grey 
eyes,  glancing  from  one  to  another,  became 
at  first  perplexed  and  then  sad.  She  felt 
that  something  had  happened,  and  to  her, 
as  well  as  Charity,  his  departure  came  as  a 
relief. 

"You  may  leave  the  shutters  awhile," 
she  said,  turning  to  the  maid  with  ner- 
vous impatience.       "The  room  becomes  so 


THE   MINIATURE.  39 

warm  when  the  windows  are  closed.  Bring 
the  book,  Charity,  and  come  and  sit  by 
me." 

It  was  customary  every  night  for  the  girl 
to  read  or  sing,  and  sometimes  they 
remained  quite  late,  forgetful  of  time  and 
place  in  the  bright  illusions  of  poetry  and 
romance.  Beside  the  sofa  where  they  sat, 
upon  a  small  round  table,  stood  the  lamp. 
But  to-night  the  reading  was  slow  to  begin. 
Charity  waited  long,  the  book  unopened  in 
her  hand. 

"Did  you  mark  the  place,  dear.?"  asked 
Miss  Graham,  with  quiet  self-repression; 
then,  melting  into  sudden  tenderness,  she 
drew  the  girl  toward  her  and  fell  to  strok- 
ing the  bright  hair. 

"Never  mind,  child,"  she  whispered 
sadly.  "I  understand  it  all  quite  well. 
When  I  longed  for  it  so  much,  I  only  meant 
if  it  could  really  be  —  not  against  your 
heart's  inclination,  dear  —  not  if  it  har- 
boured a  doubt.  Nothing  can  ever  lessen 
my  affection  for  you.  Charity, — nothing. 
You  may  always  rest  assured  of  that." 


40  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"But  you  do  not  understand,  aunt. 
Graham  asked  me  again  to-night,  and  I 
accepted  him." 

"Then  why  did  he  go?" 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you  myself  —  all 
alone." 

"  And  you  are  quite  happy  .-•  " 

"  More  than  happy. " 

It  was  true.  The  delicacy  of  those  tender 
assurances  had  gone  straight  to  Charity's 
heart.  They  touched  her  deeply,  and  in 
an  ecstasy  of  gratitude  and  gladness  she 
threw  her  arms  around  the  little  cripple's 
neck.  What  if  this  promise  were  a  sacri- 
fice.? The  very  doubt,  which  just  now  held 
her  halting,  filled  her  soul  with  joy.  She 
also  had  something  to  give,  —  some  return 
to  make  for  these  years  of  kindness.  She 
was  conferring  happiness  upon  the  human 
being  she  most  loved.  Her  quick,  tell-tale 
face,  ever  ready  to  betray  emotion,  glowed 
with  triumph  at  the  thought. 

To  little  Miss  Graham  this  was  all 
natural.  She  interpreted  that  look  of  joy 
in    her    own   manner.      Her   eyes    beamed 


THE   MINIATURE.  41 

brighter  than  ever,  as  they  filled  with  tears 
of  joy. 

"Charity,  darling!"  she  cried,  with  wild 
excitement  and  delight,  "  it  has  made  every- 
thing right.  All  I  have  will  be  Graham's 
some  day.  Half  of  it  should  be  his  now, 
in  justice  to  his  mother.  And  he  shall 
have  it  at  once.  There  is  no  need  to  wait. 
Let  him  go  back  and  get  his  degree,  and 
you  can  be  married  next  summer.  I  know 
what  love  is.  There  shall  be  no  long 
engagement.  I  know  what  love  is  —  at 
second-hand  —  always  at  second-hand. " 

As  she  repeated  the  words,  her  voice 
sank  into  a  wail  of  regret;  then  she  paused 
a  moment,  and  went  on  in  a  deep,  rapid 
whisper, — 

"  Charity,  I  cannot  help  talking  to  you 
to-night.  Within  this  wretched,  misshapen 
little  body  is  a  real  woman's  heart.  It 
makes  no  difference,  child.  It  is  some- 
thing of  the  soul.  For  the  most  perfect 
that  ever  walked  under  God's  sun  had  no 
more  capacity  for  loving,  no  greater  longing 
to  be  loved,  than  I,  who  only  hobble  from 


42  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

chair  to  sofa  or  hide  my  back  and  truckle 
along  the  road  on  wheels.  I  tell  you, 
child,  I  was  made  living,  and  knew  that  I 
could  never  live." 

Again  she  stopped.  Her  thin  fingers 
eagerly  unpinned  the  miniature  upon  her 
breast,  and  she  held  it  toward  the  lamp, 
gazing  lovingly  upon  the  face. 

"Look,  Charity!  Look  at  her,  child! 
She  loved.  How  she  used  to  come  and  tell 
me !  You  could  never  have  taken  her  for 
my  sister,  —  so  well-grown  and  graceful. 
But  she  hurt  me;  without  knowing  it,  she 
hurt  me.  She  would  talk  of  him  by  the 
hour,  and  always  as  if  I  could  not  under- 
stand. Yet  it  was  I  who  did  it  when  they 
thwarted  her.  She  could  only  sit  and  cry. 
She  had  given  way  until  I  stirred  her  into 
revolt,  and  quickened  her  with  my  spirit. 
And  so  she  followed  her  heart's  desire,  and 
married  Poltimore  in  spite  of  all.  What  is 
it  Thekla  sings,  child? 

"  *  Ick  Jiabe  gcnossen  das  irdische  Glikk, 
Ich  habe  gelebt  und  geljebet !  ' 


THE   MINIATURE.  43 

But  what  a  little  while  she  lived  !  And  I,  the 
useless  one,    to  stay   on  all  these  years ! " 

With  a  sigh  she  laid  down  the  portrait 
upon  the  table,  and,  turning  toward  the 
girl,  placed  a  hand  upon  each  shoulder. 

"After  she  had  gone,  the  loneliness  fell 
heavy  upon  me.  It  haunted  the  quiet, 
proud  old  house;  the  street  was  full  of  it, 
where  everybody  was  astir,  so  quick  and 
strong.  Her  marriage  was  a  madness,  they 
said.  I  was  not  even  allowed  to  speak  her 
name.  One  night  a  letter  came;  that  was 
when  Graham  was  born,  and  as  I  sat  think- 
ing there  crept  into  my  heart  a  longing. 
I  knew  that  I,  too,  was  made  for  mater- 
nity, —  I,  who  was  never  to  bear  a  child. 
I  wanted  to  know.  I  wanted  to  feel 
the  warmth  of  it  upon  my  bosom.  And 
every  day  it  grew  and  grew  from  a  little 
loneliness  to  a  great  despair:  until  at 
last  I  found  you,  child.  And  ever  since 
my  one  thought  has  been  set  upon  to- 
day. Year  by  year  I  watched  you  grow 
up  like  a  flower  —  and  waited.  You  were 
so  bright  and  warm,  I  could  put  my  cheek 


44  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

against  your  hair  and  feel  the  day  coming 
when  you  would  love  and  live  and  learn  it 
all.  The  hope  kept  my  heart  young.  The 
touch  of  you  kept  my  blood  warm.  It  was 
like  food  and  fire  to  keep  a  starving  soul 
alive.  And  now  you  are  to  marry,  —  you 
two,  who  are  all  the  world  to  me.  Kiss 
me.  Charity.  It  shall  be  next  year,  and 
you  shall  live  here.  Kiss  me,  dear.  I 
planned  it  all  from  the  day  when  you  first 
ran.  And  he  has  grown  up  such  a  man ! 
Only  sometimes  I  feared  he  did  not  care 
enough  about  things  —  books  and  poetry,  I 
mean  —  to  please  you.  Do  you  feel  it  cold, 
child?" 

She  stopped  abruptly,  and  glanced  toward 
the  still  open  window.  A  great  moth  had 
come  in  and  was  fluttering  around  the 
lamp.  Moonlight  fell  across  the  lawn  and 
glistened  upon  the  dark  beech-tree.  The 
rain  had  left  a  humid  chilliness  in  the 
night  air.  But  not  from  that  did  the  girl 
shiver.  The  eagerness  of  the  little  cripple's 
words  had  moved  her  sympathies  and  made 
her  shake  like  an  aspen. 


THE   MINIATURE.  45 

"No,  no,"  she  said  quickly;  "the  air  is 
close." 

"Yet  shut  it  up;  and  at  the  same  time 
ring.  We  will  not  read  to-night.  It  has 
been  a  long  and  wearying  day  —  but  a  glad 
day,  Charity,  both  for  you  and  me." 

"Yes,  the  gladdest  of  all,"  cried  the  girl, 
carried  away  by  her  emotion. 

"My  stick  has  fallen.  Come,  give  me 
your  arm,  dear,  and  we  will  go  upstairs. 
You  must  be  tired  too." 

But  Charity  was  not  tired.  Alone  in 
her  room  she  sat  down  in  the  square 
window,  quaintly  projecting  over  the  porch, 
and  curtained  off  like  another  chamber. 
Never  was  sleep  further  from  her  eyelids. 
Never  were  her  senses  more  alert.  The 
slanting  moonlight  glanced  between  blind 
and  mullion,  and  she  eagerly  drew  each 
cord,  until  a  flood  of  light  filled  the  place 
from  floor  to  ceiling.  She  looked  down  the 
quiet  coombe  at  the  roof  of  sleeping  Babble- 
mouth.  Upon  one  higher  than  the  rest, 
standing  just  under  the  hill,  the  smooth 
slates  were  shining  like  silver.     How  well 


46  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

she  knew  it  —  that  largest  house  in  the 
little  town  —  the  home  of  the  "  Babblemouth 
people;"  to-night  it  stood  out  from  the 
rest  with  an  import  strange  and  new. 

Half-way  over  the  gap  and  above  the 
open  sea  hung  the  full  moon. 

Neither  fleeing  cloud  nor  passing  ship 
broke  the  serenity  or  burst  in  upon  the 
solitude.  The  ragged  bushes  on  the  brow 
of  the  cliff  lay  flat  and  dark  against  the 
sky,  and  nothing  moved  but  the  broken 
ripple  of  the  running  tide,  where  the  moon- 
beams danced  down  a  broad  trackway,  into 
the  harbour  mouth.  The  hollow  under  the 
hill  lay  hidden  in  gloom  and  mystery. 

Many  times  before  she  had  looked  out 
upon  this  moonlit  sea,  but  to-night  tran- 
scended all  experience.  The  surpassing 
beauty  held  her  senses  captive,  —  the  won- 
der stirred  her  soul  to  some  unknown, 
unfathomed    depth. 

Graham  Poltimore's  words  came  whirling 
through  her  memory,  "  Charity,  I  think 
of  nothing  else.  I  cannot  live  without 
you." 


THE   MINIATURE.  47 

The  reality  of  his  passion  startled  her. 
It  agitated  her  like  a  wild  strain  of  some 
strange  music  once  heard  and  wanting  inter- 
pretation. But  it  awakened  no  responsive 
echo  in  her  heart. 

There  was  no  triumph  in  this  love.  For 
him  she  felt  a  pity  of  the  imagination,  and 
for  herself  a  fear.  And  the  passionate 
yearning  of  her  helpless  little  friend,  long- 
ing for  more  than  life  could  give,  haunted 
her  like  a  sad,  sad  song. 

Her  intention  did  not  waver.  She  loved 
these  people  both,  and  would  make  them 
happy.  One  way  lay  before  her,  straight  and 
clear  as  that  path  of  light,  and  she  knew  of 
no  other.  But  there  had  come  to  her  an 
undefined  longing  for  something  beyond  all 
she  knew.  She  stood  there,  still  in  her 
white  frock,  until  the  moon  had  sunk  be- 
hind the  sea  and  the  great  black  cliffs 
grew  dim. 


CHAPTER   V. 

MERE    MONEY    MATTERS. 

A  STRANGE  mixture  of  fine  feeling  and 
fastidious  sensibility  was  this  little  lady  of 
Babblecombe  House.  She  dwelt  in  a  garden 
of  poetry  —  a  sort  of  fairy  island  of  her  own 
—  where,  alas !  at  times  she  suffered  rude 
shocks  from  the  tempests  that  sweep  across 
the  sea  of  life.  Then  she  cowered  in  a 
corner  until  her  sorrow  was  forgotten  in 
sunshine  and  flowers,  as  the  garden  bloomed 
afresh. 

It  was  a  heavy  blow  when  her  father  died 
unreconciled  to  Irene.  Good  repute  and 
the  respectful  admiration  of  Bath  consti- 
tuted the  breath  of  that  great  physician's 
professional  nostrils,  and  the  scandal  of  his 
girl's    elopement   went    near   to  break   his 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       49 

heart.  He  scented  the  pump-room  gossip. 
He  detected  the  covert  smiles  of  rival 
medical  practitioners,  and  they  made  him 
mad.  In  reality  he  felt  these  more  deeply 
than  the  loss  of  his  daughter,  although 
Irene  had  been  a  belle  in  Bath,  as  the  good 
bishop  remembered.  In  his  wrath  he  swore 
that  rascal  Poltimore  should  never  touch  a 
penny  of  his  money. 

But  in  little  more  than  a  year,  stepping 
from  his  brougham  to  pay  a  visit,  he 
dropped  suddenly  upon  the  wide  pavement 
in  Milson  Street,  and  neither  spoke  nor 
opened  his  eyes  upon  the  world  again. 

In  her  loneliness  Helen  Graham  sent 
post-haste  for  her  sister,  who  hurried  home 
to  the  great  shuttered  house,  bringing 
Graham,  a  baby  in  arms.  How  good  to  be 
restored  to  each  other !  They  wept  together 
—  in  sorrow  for  the  dead,  in  joy  of  the 
new-born. 

But  Dr.  Graham  had  kept  his  word. 
After  the  funeral  it  was  found  that  every 
farthing  was  left  in  trust  for  "  my  daughter 
Helen,"  with  power  of  appointment  to  her 

4 


so  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

by  will.  She  could  not  part  with  the 
money  during  life,  although  she  could  leave 
it  as  she  would. 

Between  baser  spirits  this  must  have 
opened  an  impassable  gulf,  but  it  seemed 
only  to  knit  the  sisters  in  closer  affection. 
They  spoke  of  it  with  bated  breath,  scarcely 
daring  to  call  in  question  the  justice  of  the 
dead  or  defeat  his  intention.  After  all, 
the  money  might  have  been  lost,  which  now 
must  be  secured  to  little  Graham.  Bless 
him!  And  meanwhile  Helen  could  pay 
Irene's  bills.  Then,  to  be  near  her  sister, 
the  little  cripple  bought  the  mansion  at 
Babblecombe,  with  the  cottages,  the  wood, 
and  the  small  farm  let  with  the  mill. 
Scarcely  had  she  come  there  to  live,  when 
Irene  died. 

For  a  while  sorrow  brought  closer  inti- 
macy between  the  bereaved  neighbours. 
Helen  Graham  was  constantly  driving  into 
the  town  to  the  little  motherless  boy.  And 
Henry  Poltimore,  then  agent  to  Lord 
Babblemouth,  and  steward  to  his  lordship's 
vast    estates,    was    no    less   frequently   at 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       51 

Coombe.  She  could  not  do  without  him. 
He  advised  her  concerning  the  mill,  the 
cottage,  and  the  farm.  She  esteemed  him 
highly.  She  pitied  him  with  all  her  heart. 
And  if  at  times  a  manner  somewhat  too 
large  jarred  upon  her  nerves,  —  as  when  he 
boasted  of  his  own  gentility,  or  talked  of 
his  lordship  at  unnecessary  length,  —  such 
little  matters  must  be  forgiven  to  a  man  of 
business.  She  had  always  understood  dis- 
creet reserve  and  perfect  self-restraint  to  be 
the  exclusive  possessions  of  upper  profes- 
sional circles,  and  the  pick  of  the  aris- 
tocracy. As  a  man  of  affairs,  as  a  man  of 
heart,  Henry  Poltimore  was  perfect;  and 
he  also  had  loved  and  lost  Irene. 

About  this  time  one  of  the  trustees  under 
her  father's  will  was  called  to  his  last 
account.  She  gladly  appointed  Henry 
Poltimore.  Who  so  fit  to  accept  this  trust 
as  the  father  of  the  child  to  whom  the 
property  should  some  day  fall .'  This  was 
reasonable,  and  readily  agreed  to  by  the 
remaining  trustee. 

Then  suddenly  came  a  blow  which  shook 


52  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

her   soul's   belief   in  human  nature  to   its 
profoundest  depths. 

It  was  delivered  by  Mrs.  Mortimer,  then 
the  rector's  young  bride,  who  one  morning 
hurried  panting  from  Babblemouth,  and 
entered  the  French  window  as  pale  as 
Piamlet's  ghost.  Not  that  she  was  affected 
by  the  news  she  bore;  but  driven  by  excite- 
ment, and  a  laudable  desire  to  be  friendly 
and  tell  Miss  Graham  first,  she  had  travelled 
with  inexpedient  speed. 

"Mr.  Henry  Poltimore  has  married 
again  !  "  she  gasped. 

"  Married  again  !  When  ?  Where }  To 
whom.-*  " 

"To  a  governess  —  in  Wiltshire  —  they 
say  she  is  the  daughter  of  a  farmer  —  " 

"The  daughter  of  a  farmer,"  interrupted 
Miss  Graham,  indignantly;  "I  do  not 
believe  it!  He  is  broken-hearted!  He  is 
inconsolable ! " 

"  But  he  has  written  to  the  rector.  He 
could  not  bear  the  solitude,  he  said.  They 
married  quietly  —  nine  in  the  morning  — 
none    present,    because    Mr.    Poltimore    is 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       53 

still  in  mourning.  The  rector  thinks  it 
positively  indecent.  So  very  soon,  you 
know.  You  will  certainly  get  a  letter 
when  the  post  comes.  But  I  thought  you 
would  like  to  know  at  once." 

It  was  too  true.  The  prediction  was 
little  sooner  uttered  than  confirmed,  for  the 
postman  was  already  upon  the  gravel  path. 

"  He  might  at  least  have  married  a  lady," 
said  Miss  Graham,  with  bitter  self-control. 
But  her  hand  shook,  and  the  letter  dropped 
upon  the  floor. 

That  was  all  she  said.  It  was  reported 
in  Babblemouth,  and  afterwards  repeated  to 
the  second  Mrs.  Poltimore,  on  the  authority 
of  the  rector's  wife.  But  although  she  sat 
in  her  chair,  stiff  with  dignity,  tears  rushed 
into  her  eyes  at  the  thought  of  Irene,  sweet 
and  beautiful  as  an  angel,  and  only  a  few 
months  in  heaven. 

She  was  too  proud  to  give  expression  to 
her  pain.  When  Mr.  Poltimore  brought 
home  his  bride,  she  called.  But  her  con- 
stant visits  were  discontinued.  They  must 
send  over  the  little  boy  on  every  fine,  warm 


54  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

day,  she  told  them.  She  should  be  pleased 
to  welcome  them  at  Babblecombe  at  any 
time,  of  course,  but  she  had  given  up  going 
out.  Thus  they  sank  into  comparative 
insignificance  as  "  the  Babblemouth  people. " 
A  little  later,  in  spite  of  their  remon- 
strance, she  adopted  Charity  Chance;  an 
act  of  benevolence  which  so  far  had 
brought  her  nothing  but  happiness  and 
love. 

Then  Mr.  Henry  Poltimore  suddenly 
became  rich,  retired  from  his  stewardship, 
and  blossomed  into  Briggs.  He  bought  a 
small  estate  close  to  Babblemouth,  and 
farmed  it  to  the  admiration  of  surrounding 
agriculturists.  It  was  like  a  garden.  "But, 
la!  it  never  couldn't  pay,"  they  said.  He 
bred  prize  cattle  of  marvellous  length  of 
pedigree  and  price,  and  rented  the  shooting 
of  Babblemouth  Park  when  his  Lordship 
went  abroad,  and  added  a  wing  to  his  house, 
and  built  new  stables,  which  everybody 
said  were  better  than  most  people's  cottages. 
The  hillside  above  the  town  glistened 
with  his   conservatories;    and   his   grapes, 


MERE    MONEY   MATTERS.       55 

exhibited  at  all  the  flower  shows,  became 
the  despair  of  every  gardener  in  the  west. 

Thus  he  grew  and  grew,  and  many  people 
thought  he  ought  to  be  made  a  magistrate 
for  the  county.  He  thought  so  himself. 
His  devotion  to  public  business  deserved 
no  less.  For  he  sat  on  every  board  and 
council  in  the  district,  and  spoke,  too,  at 
considerable  length.  Thus  his  name  was 
in  every  mouth.  As  elections  were  fre- 
quent, it  brightened  every  hoarding,  and 
enlivened  every  blank  wall  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Gate-posts  bloomed  perennially 
with  invitations  to  "Vote  for  Poltimore- 
Briggs. "  And  what  a  friend  he  was  —  a 
friend  to  the  farmer  —  a  friend  to  the  landed 
interest  —  a  friend  to  the  poor  man.  Noth- 
ing was  too  high  or  too  low  to  be  included 
in  the  friendship  of  Poltimore-Briggs. 
And  at  last  this  broad  humanity,  assisted  by 
persistent  pushing  of  himself,  was  to  reap 
its  reward.  The  Agricultural  Association 
had  determined  to  run  a  candidate  for  Par- 
liament, and  upon  whom  should  its  maiden 
fancy  light  but  Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs ! 


56  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

No  wonder,  when  at  last  he  was  left  sole 
surviving  trustee,  Miss  Graham  did  not 
appoint  another.  Such  a  thought  could 
not  enter  her  head.  For  everything  was 
managed  to  perfection.  Her  dividends 
were  never  a  day  late ;  not  even  the  rent  of 
a  cottage  went  into  arrears. 

Some  days  had  elapsed,  and  the  buzz  of 
excitement  following  Charity's  engagement 
had  settled  down.  It  was  a  lovely  summer 
morning,  and  John  Sprake  had  already 
toiled  half-way  up  the  hill,  when  Miss 
Graham  suddenly  leaned  forward  in  her 
chair. 

"  Have  the  horses  been  exercised,  John }  " 

John  Sprake,  who,  although  a  very  steady 
man,  was  no  fool,  hearing  himself  thus 
addressed,  speedily  turned  around  the  little 
wheel,  and  respectfully  rested. 

In  Miss  Graham's  opinion,  nobody  in 
this  world  was  so  good  as  John  Sprake  —  in 
his  own  station  in  life,  of  course.  Nobody 
could  pull  the  chair  like  John  Sprake.  She 
could  trust  no  other  in  the  same  way,  for 
several  excellent  reasons.     He  was  a  coach- 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       57 

man,  and  understood  driving,  and  had  never 
been  known  to  go  fast  or  have  an  accident 
in  his  life.  He  was  clean-shaved,  with 
white,  wavy  hair,  which  reminded  her  of 
the  late  Dean  of  Bath.  He  had  buried  two 
wives,  poor  man,  and  married  a  third ;  and 
brought  up  fourteen  children  and  lost  four; 
and  looked  very  respectable  in  church  in 
top-boots  and  a  blue  livery;  and,  during 
his  whole  twenty  years  of  service,  had 
never  done  anything  giddy  or  lost  his  head. 
Therefore  she  placed  implicit  confidence  in 
John  Sprake. 

"Regularly.''"  She  looked  him  keenly 
in  the  face.  Something  evidently  weighed 
upon  her  mind. 

Ever  so  small  a  spot  upon  John's  con- 
science made  him  unduly  to  protest. 

"  Iss,  mum.  Every  day  so  sure  as  the 
sun  —  zo  to  speak  —  unless  't  is  vor  some 
good  reason." 

"And  are  they  in  good  order? " 

"Zo  vat's  butter." 

"  Yes,  but  I  mean  quite  quiet .-'  " 

"Zo  quiet 's  mice." 


58  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"  Then  bring  round  the  carriage  this  after- 
noon at  three.  Miss  Chance  is  going  for  a 
sail,  and  I  shall  drive  into  town  with  her." 

This  unexpected  termination  to  a  cross- 
examination,  pressing  perilously  close  upon 
detection,  took  John  Sprake's  breath  away. 
As  he  explained  at  leisure,  when  subse- 
quent proceedings  attracted  attention  in 
the  village :  "  I  wur  that  tookt  aback,  that 
wh'er  or  no  I  wur  'pon  my  head  or  my 
heels  I  could  n'  ha'  told.  There  !  If  you  'd 
'a'  stuck  Jan  Sprake  wi'  a  knife,  thik 
minute,   he  would  n'  never  ha'  blood." 

However,  he  managed  to  murmur,  "  Iss, 
mum,"  and  turned  and  plodded  wisely  on 
his  way. 

No  wonder  the  man  was  startled.  Jan 
Sprake  bestriding  one  fat  carriage-horse  and 
leading  another  was  the  most  familiar 
object  in  the  Babblecombe  landscape.  He 
did  very  little  else,  and  many  a  distasteful 
duty  did  John  avoid  by  urging  the  imme- 
diate necessity  to  exercise  his  horses.  He 
had  been  known  to  refuse  to  haul  the  chair 
because  he  must  take  out  his  horses.     And 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       59 

this  with  such  a  serious  shake  of  his  hoary 
old  head  that  the  poor  little  v/oman  was 
nearly  moved  to  tears  by  the  contemplation 
of  such  devotion  to  dumb  animals.  She 
had  not  set  foot  in  a  carriage  for  years. 
The  splendid  chariot,  its  wheels  picked  out 
with  yellow,  and  the  brougham  in  which 
her  distinguished  father  formerly  paid  his 
visits,  stood  in  the  coach-house  side  by 
side,  in  solemn  state.  She  would  not  have 
parted  with  them  for  the  world.  Some- 
times a  visitor  must  be  fetched  from  the 
station,  five  miles  over  the  hill,  and  the 
mere  thought  of  a  hired  fly  made  her  shudder. 
But  ten  years  ago,  when  alighting,  she  had 
stumbled  and  fallen  in  Babblemouth  street; 
and  since  then,  except  upon  those  rare  occa- 
sions, the  carriages  had  remained  at  rest. 

But  with  Charity's  engagement,  over 
everything  had  come  a  change. 

The  little  lady  started  life  anew.  Her 
tenderest  hope,  hitherto  liable  to  be  cut  off 
by  any  frost,  was  at  last  hardened  into  a  set 
purpose.  She  could  look  forward  to  flowers 
and  fruit. 


6o  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

Of  late  a  doubt  had  often  troubled  her 
mind.  If  Charity  did  not  marry  Graham, 
she  must  be  provided  for  in  some  manner 
consistent  with  the  luxury  in  which  she  had 
been  brought  up.  To  educate  and  then  to 
leave  her  poor  would  be  cruelty  indeed,  — 
for  education,  in  the  opinion  of  this  little 
lady,  added  a  grace  only.  It  was  not  meant 
for  the  work-a-day  world.  Common  people 
were  better  without  it,  with  its  restless, 
upsetting  influences,  leading  only  to  dis- 
content. And  the  pay  which  an  accom- 
plished lady  could  command  was  a  mere 
pittance.  Yet  to  leave  money  away  from 
her  own  kin  seemed  to  savour  of  robbery, 
and  was  scarcely  a  righteous  act.  She 
almost  fancied  it  might  follow  her  beyond 
the  grave,  and  meet  with  disapproval  both 
in  this  world  and  the  next.  For  in  this 
woman's  heart  was  a  fair  mixture  of  fine  old 
family  pride. 

But  now  that  Charity  was  to  be  her  niece 
indeed,  all  doubts  were  blown  to  the  winds. 
People  called,  letters  came  by  every  post, 
and  the  very  air  became  quite  bracing  with 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       6i 

congratulation.  In  her  joy,  with  every 
hour  Miss  Graham  evolved  a  new  and 
loftier  idea.  Graham  should  add  the  name 
of  Graham,  as  his  father  had  taken  Briggs, 
and  Charity  become  the  mother  of  a  fresh 
line  of  Grahams.  It  was  a  noble  mission. 
Only  to  think  of  it  brought  the  colour  to 
the  little  cripple's  cheek.  The  girl  whom 
she  had  always  loved  so  well  was  now  wor- 
shipped, and  this  order  for  the  carriage  was 
an  act  of  sacrifice  and  devotion. 

To  the  intensity  of  this  new-found  fervour 
witnessed  every  word  and  look.  The  real- 
ity of  it  unconsciously  impressed  John 
Sprake  so  that  he  hauled  and  wheeled  in 
silence,  without  stopping  for  argument  or 
rest. 

Nor  did  his  wisdom  afterward  invent  any 
specious  obstacle;  and  the  carriage  was 
brought  round  upon  the  stroke  of  three. 

"  Put  the  footstool  closer,  Charity  dear, 
and  draw  the  shawl  over  my  shoulder !  To 
Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs's,  Sprake." 

Thus  she  courageously  started;  but  all 
along  the  Babblemouth  road,  and  down  the 


62  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

one  street  which  forms  the  town,  she 
nervously  clutched  the  girl's  hand.  Trades- 
men, scarcely  able  to  believe  their  eyes, 
popped  to  their  shop  doors  to  be  sure  it 
was  Miss  Graham  who  passed.  Two  of  the 
rector's  daughters  upon  the  causeway  turned 
back  at  once,  to  carry  home  the  news. 
Quite  a  little  crowd  of  children  gathered 
round  as  the  carriage  drew  up  before  the 
house  of  Poltimore-Briggs. 

A  large  house  of  red  brick,  three  stories 
high,  with  a  paved  court  in  front,  enclosed 
with  tall  iron  railings  against  the  raised 
causeway.  An  old-fashioned,  ornamental 
arch  of  wrought  iron,  bearing  an  heraldic 
shield  and  a  square  frame  to  hold  a  lamp, 
bent  over  the  gates.  The  windows  were 
long  and  narrow,  with  thick  sash-bars ;  and 
above  the  brass  knocker  on  the  front  door, 
in  places  of  panels,  were  panes  of  glass  to 
light  the  hall.  It  was  a  fine  old  place,  this 
ancient  house  of  some  forgotten  merchant; 
and  above  the  brass  knocker  it  frowned 
down  upon  street  and  harbour  with  the 
solemn  dignity  of  a  bygone  age. 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       63 

Scarcely  had  the  carriage  stopped,  when 
the  door  quickly  opened  and  Poltimore- 
Briggs  himself  came  hurrying  hatless  down 
the  steps  and  across  the  paved  court.  He 
was  carefully  attired,  as  at  the  garden 
party;  his  face  shone  with  pleasure,  and 
his  bald  head  glistened  in  the  sun. 

"  Now  this  is  kind ;  Helen,  this  is  delight- 
ful. Let  me  help  you.  Take  care  of  the 
step  —  "  Suddenly  remembering  Charity, 
he  gave  her  his  hand  without  looking  at 
her,  still  talking  all  the  while.  "I  saw 
you  from  the  window,  and  could  hardly 
believe  my  eyes.  But  you  are  in  no  hurry. 
You  will  stay.  Sprake  must  put  up  the 
horses.  Yes.  Put  up  the  horses,  Sprake. 
Really  not.-*  Then  wait,  Sprake.  Take 
care,  Helen,  take  care.  The  polished  floor 
is  slippery  —  " 

And  so,  with  blusterous  zeal,  he  led  her 
across  the  hall,  bending  down  that  she 
might  take  his  arm. 

"You  have  come  at  a  fortunate  moment," 
he  cried,  unable  to  conceal  his  pride.  "I 
have  been  invited  to  stand  for  Parliament. 


64  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

A  deputation  —  a  most  influential  deputa- 
tion, from  one  of  the  most  powerful  organ- 
isations in  the  division  —  has  just  left  me. 
You  must  have  passed  them  in  the  street. 
I  admit  I  was  gratified  —  deeply  gratified. 
But  I  have  not  yet  given  a  reply.  We 
shall  find  the  others  in  the  new  room  —  " 

"  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you,"  she  whispered, 
in  that  sudden  way  of  hers  which  sounded 
so  abrupt. 

"  To  be  sure.  To  be  sure.  Let  us  go 
in  here.  We  shall  be  alone.  You  '11  find 
the  others,  Charity,  somewhere  or  other. 
They  are  waiting  for  you,  and  the  boat  is 
ready.  Graham  has  an  old  school  friend 
with  him.  A  poet  or  something  of  the  sort, 
so  they  say.     Alfred  —  Alfred  Prentice." 

As  a  man  of  affairs,  he  laughed  at  the 
bare  idea  of  poetry.  Then,  as  he  opened 
the  door,  he  added  with  respect :  "  But 
I've  seen  his  name  in  the  papers." 

They  went  into  a  large  dining-room  with 
three  tall  windows  looking  out  upon  the 
street.  It  was  panelled  half-way  up  the 
walls,  and  furnished  with  pieces  of  old  oak. 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       6$ 

picked  up  during  many  years  at  sales  in  the 
neighbourhood.  It  had  an  odd  look,  as  if 
it  belonged  not  to  the  place,  — this  flotsam 
from  the  seas  of  bankruptcy  and  death. 
Many  of  the  chairs  were  out  of  place,  and 
on  the  long  oak  table  stood  empty  decanters 
and  glasses,  to  prove  how  well  the  thirsty 
deputation  had  refreshed  itself.  Over  the 
mantel-piece  hung  a  life-sized  portrait  of 
Poltimore-Briggs  himself,  smiling  round  at 
a  visitor,  pen  in  hand,  and  upon  his  face  a 
light  of  intelligence  such  as,  without  the 
advantage  of  baldness,  human  forehead  dare 
not  hope  to  sustain.  The  attitude  was 
justified;  the  quill  no  mere  poetic  flight. 
In  the  local  newspaper  he  had  once  waged 
bitter  war,  the  Incidence  of  Local  Taxation 
being  the  theme. 

The  paint  upon  the  picture  was  scarcely 
dry,  but  a  host  of  old  familiar  objects 
recalled  the  past.  A  bookcase  from  the 
old  house  in  Bath;  a  pencil  drawing,  by  an 
artist  of  that  city,  of  Irene,  a  school-girl, 
with  hair  half-way  down  her  back,  —  these 
moved  the  little  woman  deeply,  and  for  a 


66  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

while  after  she  was  seated  she  did  not 
speak. 

But  Poltimore-Briggs  blustered  heed- 
lessly on:  — 

"  Why,  it  must  be  twenty  years,  Helen, 
since  you  were  last  here.  Did  you  notice 
we  've  thrown  the  little  room  into  the  hall.-* 
A  wonderful  improvement,  I  flatter  myself. 
Some  of  the  deputation  said  frankly  they 
had  never  seen  anything  carried  out  so 
thoroughly  and  well.  You  must  look  when 
you  go  out.  And  you  would  n't  know  the 
gardens  now.  I  don't  know  what  I  've 
spent  upon  them,  I  'm  sure.  Thousands ! 
More  than  I  was  justified.  More  than  I 
shall  ever  see  again.  Lord  Babblemouth 
came  in  only  the  other  day  —  when  he  was 
down  about  the  new  quay.  He  wanted  my 
advice  —  he  thinks  a  deal  of  my  opinion  — 
and  he  was  astonished.  He  said,  *  Polti- 
more  ' — he  said — he  always  forgets  and 
calls  me  Poltimore  still  —  *  Poltimore,  you 
have  the  prettiest  place  in  the  west  of  Eng- 
land —  for  the  size,  of  course. '  I  said,  '  I 
am  gratified  to  find  you  like  it,  my  Lord.' 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       67 

And  so  I  was,  I  confess.  And  so  it  ought 
to  be,  for  it  costs  a  pretty  penny  to  keep  it 
up.  Four  men  summer  and  winter,  and 
sometimes  five  in  the  spring." 

He  paused  for  some  note  of  admiration, 
some  expression  of  surprise,  and  looked 
larger  than  ever,  with  his  hands  thrust  in 
the  pockets  of  his  white  waistcoat.  But 
little  Miss  Graham  had  scarcely  heard 
his  words.  Only  when  he  ceased  she 
became  conscious  of  what  he  had  been 
saying. 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,  Henry," 
she  began,  and  her  voice  was  tremulous 
and  very  low.  "A  secret  that  you  must 
not  repeat.  I  only  tell  you  now  because  I 
want  something  done.  I  should  have  sent 
for  you  to  come  over  if  I  had  not  seen  you 
to-day.  I  have  been  thinking  over  it  for 
some  time,  and  I  want  your  help  and 
advice." 

Her  earnestness  arrested  his  attention; 
she  was  shaking  from  an  agitation  she  tried 
in  vain  to  repress. 

"You  know,   Helen,"   he  replied   in  his 


68  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

large  way,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand,  "  that 
I  am  always  at  your  service.     I  —  " 

"  Yes.  Yes.  You  have  been  very  kind. 
You  have  been  most  good ;  but  —  but  —  " 
She  paused,  in  doubt  how  to  begin,  and 
then,  summoning  all  her  courage,  con- 
tinued: "Do  you  remember  the  story  of 
the  Spartan  boy  who  concealed  a  fox  in  his 
bosom .''  " 

He  nodded  assent.  She  has  found  out 
that  rascal  Sprake,  he  said  to  himself.  For 
in  his  mind  was  the  fable  of  the  man  who 
cherished  a  snake,  and  he  thought  it  meant 
ingratitude. 

"And  then  it  gnawed  into  his  heart,  and 
he  died." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Helen.''  What  do 
you  mean.-* " 

"  I  want  to  arrange  and  settle  everything 
without  delay.  I  have  known  it  for  some 
time.  But  I  could  not  speak  of  it.  And  I 
do  not  want  any  one  to  know.  Henry,  I 
have  only  a  little  while  to  live.  Perhaps 
two  years  at  most.  Only  two  years  to 
live." 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       69 

Her  voice  sank  into  a  wail.  But  now 
that  her  sorrow  had  found  utterance  she  at 
once  regained  composure,  and  she  looked 
up  with  her  keen  grey  eyes,  as  if  eager  to 
observe  the  effect  upon  him  of  her  words. 

He  was  standing  upon  the  hearth-rug, 
and  the  light  from  one  of  the  windows  fell 
full  upon  his  face.  His  brows  were  knit  in 
perplexity,  as  if  he  did  not  quite  catch  her 
meaning,  but  the  colour  left  his  cheek. 
He  became  pale  with  alarm.  He  could 
not  have  appeared  more  startled  had  he  just 
heard  his  own  doom. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  are  ill,  Helen  .-*"  he 
asked   eagerly,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"Beyond  hope.  There  is  no  chance  of 
recovery,"  she  moaned.  Then  she  burst 
into  passionate  lament :  "  And  I  do  not 
want  to  die.  I  want  to  live.  I  want  to 
live  for  years  and  years." 

"But  what  are  you  doing.''  Why  don't 
you  take  advice?  Call  in  Bibberly.  He's 
a  good  man,  Bibberly.  I  should  have  every 
confidence,  and  —  " 

"Do  you  think  I  would  have  such  as  he 


70  .CHARITY   CHANCE. 

prying  at  my  poor  body?"  she  cried,  with 
sudden  nervous  irritability.  "No.  I  wrote 
to  a  physician  at  Bath.  I  sent  Charity  out 
for  the  day,  and  John  Sprake  fetched  and 
drove  him  back,  and  nobody  knew.  Besides, 
I  have  read  about  it  in  one  of  my  father's 
books.  Nothing  can  be  done.  He  did  not 
propose  anything.  It  must  just  grow  and 
grow.      I  can  see  it  grow. " 

"But — eh,  surely  —  "  he  hesitated,  grop- 
ing in  his  brain  for  the  thing  to  say. 
"  Surely,  Helen,  you  will  take  a  second 
opinion.''  " 

"  It  is  no  good.  Besides,  they  might 
want  to  do  something." 

She  shuddered  at  the  thought,  and  then 
again  came  upon  her  this  great  longing  for 
life. 

"And  yet  I  do  not  want  to  go.  I  could 
not  lose  it  for  the  world,  little  as  it  is. 
To  be  wheeled  out  into  the  sun.  To  watch 
in  winter  for  the  Christmas  roses  in  the 
corner.  And  the  daffodils  in  spring,  so 
bright  in  the  meadow  along  the  brook. 
And  the  bluebells  in  the  wood,  quite  thick, 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       71 

as  if  the  sky  had  fallen  between  the  trees. 
And  I  want  to  see  Charity  married  —  and 
to  sit  like  a  grandmother,  with  children 
running  around  my  chair.  There  are  people 
who  say  they  are  tired  of  life  —  people  who 
have  it  all.  But  I  was  never  tired.  I 
could  never  do  enough  to  get  tired." 

She  stopped  in  her  sudden  way,  and 
asked  quickly :  "  You  were  not  averse  to 
Graham's  engagement.-'" 

The  look  of  fear  vanished  from  his  coun- 
tenance. The  question  implied  a  doubt, 
and  again  he  was  important  and  self- 
satisfied  as  ever. 

"  I  will  not  seek  to  hide  from  you, 
Helen,"  he  began  slowly,  and  in  his  most 
sententious  manner,  as  if  he  were  address- 
ing a  Board  of  Guardians,  "that  I  had 
cherished  other  hopes  for  Graham.  My 
position  and  his  —  his  expectations,  I  think 
I  may  say,  justified  me  in  hoping  that  he 
would  make  a  suitable  match.  I  was  ambi- 
tious for  him,  I  confess  to  you.  It  was 
only  natural.  Personally,  I  say  nothing 
against    Miss    Chance.     Thanks    to    your 


72  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

bounty,  she  is  well  brought  up,  intelligent, 
accomplished  —  but  —  " 

"You  would  be  too  generous  to  speak  of 
that,"  she  broke  in  with  warmth. 

He  graciously  accepted  the  attribute : 
"Well,  well!  Graham  has  chosen,  and  we 
need  say  no  more." 

With  his  patronising  wave  of  the  hand 
he  would  have  dismissed  the  matter,  but 
she  had  still  her  errand  to  fulfil. 

"  But  I  want  to  see  everything  clear.  I 
love  her  as  if  she  were  my  own,  and  I  want 
to  know  that  whatever  happens  she  will  be 
provided  for,"  she  cried  with  glowing 
enthusiasm.  "  Of  course  I  have  left  all  to 
Graham,  and  that  is  only  just.  But  there 
is  the  money  that  has  been  saved.  That 
seems  to  me  quite  different.  I  want  to 
give  her  that  at  once.  To  settle,  or  secure, 
or  whatever  you  call  it.  So  that  it  can 
never  be  lost  or  taken  away,  you  know. 
Now,  in  my  lifetime,  I  want  to  do  it.  So 
that  if  anything  comes  between  them  she 
will  have  it  just  the  same.  And  when 
they  marry,  it  can  make  no  difference." 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       73 

He  turned  to  the  window,  and  stood  with 
his  back  toward  her,  looking  out  into  the 
street.  She  felt  that  he  disapproved  of  her 
intention.  The  old  opposition,  she  thought, 
offered  to  poor  Charity  from  the  very  first. 
This  made  her  more  determined. 

"You  see,"  she  urged,  "I  do  not  want  to 
have  to  think  of  these  things  again.  Soon 
I  may  have  to  tell  Charity,  and  I  want  all 
this  settled  first.  As  if  it  were  for  the 
marriage,  and  as  much  for  his  sake  as 
hers." 

He  walked  slowly  back,  and  leaned  with 
his  elbow  upon  the  mantel-piece.  He 
looked  ten  years  older  than  the  portrait 
now,  and  the  lines  upon  his  forehead  were 
very  deep. 

"  I  have  been  taken  by  surprise,  and  what 
you  tell  me  of  yourself  pains  me  very 
deeply,  Helen,"  he  faltered.  "Let  the 
matter  rest.  I  will  think  how  your  wishes 
can  be  best  carried  out.  Leave  it  for  the 
present.  Leave  it ;  I  will  not  forget  nor 
delay.  But  such  things  want  looking  at  — 
careful  lookins;  at  —  " 


74  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

There  came  a  step  across  the  hall  — ^  the 
door  was  thrown  open,  and  Mrs.  Poltimorc- 
Briggs,  like  a  little  whirlwind  out  of 
breath,  broke  in  upon  their  conference. 
She  was  full  of  regrets,  and  overflowing 
with  apologies.  Her  rapid  trivialities, 
pitched  in  the  highest  key  of  exaggeration, 
were  in  strange  contrast  to  the  deep  sorrow 
hidden  in  Miss  Graham's  heart. 

"My  dear  Miss  Graham!  How  could  he 
bring  you  into  this  disreputable  room }  I 
was  beside  myself  when  Charity  mentioned 
it.  I  rushed  away  at  once  in  the  most 
frantic  haste.  Why,  you  must  be  quite 
worn  out  and  exhausted.  Now  do  let  me 
take  you  into  the  other  room  to  have  some 
tea !  Let  me  take  your  arm.  I  won't  trust 
you  to  him  any  longer.  Open  the  other 
window,  Henry,  do.  It  is  as  close  as  an 
oven." 

So  the  interview  came  abruptly  to  a 
close,   and  he  was  left  alone. 

The  cool  air  blowing  in  from  the  sea  was 
grateful  to  him,  and  he  stood  looking  down 
upon  the  harbour  mouth.      It  was  high-tide; 


MERE   MONEY   MATTERS.       75 

but  below  the  clear,  deep  water  he  could 
distinguish  lighter  streaks  of  sand  between 
masses  of  weed-covered  rocks.  There  came 
a  moment  of  insight.  Between  the  whirl- 
ing eddies  of  his  vanity,  and  the  varying 
agitations  of  his  social  ambition,  he  caught 
glimpses  of  the  unchanging  realities  of 
life. 

In  his  perplexity  he  passed  his  hand 
across  his  forehead.  It  was  wet  with  beads 
of  perspiration. 

"Two  years  !  Two  years  !  "  he  muttered. 
"He  must  marry  her  at  once." 

Between  the  cliffs  lay  a  cutter  in  readi- 
ness to  go  out.  He  could  hear  the  creak- 
ing of  her  gaff  and  the  hoops  of  her  mainsail 
against  the  mast,  as  it  flapped  idly  when 
she  rolled  upon  the  swell  of  the  tide. 

Two  members  of  the  deputation  strolled 
down,  and  stood  upon  the  quay.  One  of 
them,  in  gaiters  and  with  a  back  of  the 
broadest  acreage,  raised  his  stick  and 
pointed   at   her. 

He  knew  that  they  were  talking  of  him 
—  saying,  perhaps  with  envy,  that  she  was 


^6  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

his.  An  hour  before  he  would  have  been 
gratified,  — very  gratified;  but  now  the 
thought  was  bitter  to  him. 

"I  wish  to  God  I  was  dead  and  in  my 
grave!  "  he  hissed  between  his  teeth.  And 
at  that  moment  he  meant  it  too. 


CHAPTER   VL 


ALFRED    PRENTICE. 


A  POET?  Alfred  Prentice?  Yes,  there 
sometimes  appeared  verses  in  the  magazines 
signed  with  that  name.  Charity  had  seen, 
but  scarcely  read  them,  or  if  so  they  left  no 
deep  impression  on  her  mind.  But  the 
mere  thought  of  a  poet  made  her  heart 
quicken  with  interest  and  enthusiasm.  In 
her  restless  impatience  with  Babblemouth 
and  its  trivialities,  one  thing  she  longed 
for  more  than  all,  —  intercourse  with  people 
whose  minds  were  lifted  above  littlenesses 
upon  great  ideas.  No  poet  had  ever  been 
known  in  Babblemouth,  except  the  little 
shoemaker  on  the  quay,  who  recommended 
inelegant  boots  in  limping  verse,  and  drove 
a  thriving  trade  in  consequence. 


78  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

Attracted  by  the  sound  of  voices,  she 
went  quickly  down  a  long  passage  to  a  door 
at  the  back  of  the  house.  It  opened  into  a 
paved  court  at  the  foot  of  a  terrace,  beyond 
which  a  large  walled  garden  ran  up  the 
hillside. 

Here  in  the  cool  several  people  were 
seated.  Theodosia  Mortimer,  with  her 
mother  and  some  of  her  sisters,  Mrs. 
Poltimore-Briggs  and  Graham.  They  had 
gathered  in  a  semicircle  around  a  stranger, 
who  leaned  back  in  his  chair  smoking  a  cigar- 
ette. Upon  the  ground  close  to  his  hand, 
which  hung  over  the  arm  of  the  chair,  lay  a 
small  red  volume  he  had  just  put  down. 

As  she  came  into  the  doorway,  Charity 
was  greeted  with  a  chorus  of  mingled  wel- 
come and  regret. 

"We  are  ready  and  waiting  for  you, 
Charity,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  with  her 
never-ceasing  smile. 

"  Oh,  Charity !  What  a  pity  you  were 
not  here  before !  You  have  lost  the  most 
delightful  treat,'  piped  Mrs.  Poltimore- 
Briggs.      "Mr.     Prentice    has    been    good 


ALFRED    PRENTICE.  79 

enough  to  read  us  one  of  his  most  beautiful 
poems." 

"And  you  so  fond  of  poetry  too,"  chimed 
in  Theodosia. 

The  poet  languidly  rose  from  his  seat,  and 
stood  in  an  attitude  combining  ease  with 
angularity.  Less  than  the  middle  height, 
and  very  slight,  beside  Graham  Poltimore 
he  looked  quite  small.  His  hair,  of  which 
there  was  a  great  deal,  was  black  as  jet; 
his  shaven  face  thin  and  pale,  and  his  eyes 
large  and  bright.  He  wore  a  soft  hat,  a 
velvet  jacket,   and  a  lace  cravat. 

At  the  first  glance  there  came  to  Charity 
a  strange  feeling  of  mistrust,  —  an  intuition 
of  something  new  and  not  yet  understood, 
which  brought  the  colour  to  her  cheek,  and 
caused  her  to  abruptly  turn  away.  "  How 
happy  she  looks,  now  she  is  engaged ! " 
thought  Theodosia  Mortimer.  "  What  luck 
the  girl  has  had  !  " 

In  the  movement  and  flutter  of  excite- 
ment, for  a  moment  the  poet  seemed  likely 
to  be  overlooked. 

"Present  me,  Poltimore." 


8o  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

The  voice  was  deep  and  rich,  and  ahnost 
tragic. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  old  man.  Mr.  Alfred 
Prentice  —  Miss  Chance." 

Graham  was  in  the  best  of  spirits.  With 
youth,  expectations,  and  the  superabundant 
health  which  runs  to  irresponsibility,  how 
could  he  be  otherwise?  "Come,  let  us  go 
on  at  once,"  he  shouted  in  his  light-hearted 
way. 

As  they  walked  down  to  the  quay,  he 
looked  gladly  down  at  the  girl  he  loved  and 
at  last  had  won,  and  burst  out  in  rapid 
eulogy  of  his  new-found  friend. 

"You  will  like  Prentice,  Charity,"  he 
cried  with  enthusiasm.  "  He  is  not  exactly 
a  Hercules,  but  he  's  a  very  good  fellow  — 
and  clever,  very  clever  indeed.  Just  the 
sort  of  literary  chap  you  will  like  to  talk  to. 
I  fell  across  him  this  morning  sitting  upon 
the  wall  at  the  end  of  the  jetty.  I  asked 
him  what  he  was  doing.  He  said  he  was 
busy.  Incubating  a  poem,  I  told  him. 
We  were  at  school  together,  but  he  is  older 
than  I.      Oh  !  he  's  a  very  good  chap.      He 


ALFRED    PRENTICE.  8i 

did  my  verses  and  Greek  play  for  years. 
That 's  why  he  made  such  a  reputation  so 
young  in  life.  He  got  the  learning  meant 
for  me,  in  addition  to  his  own.  Those 
verses  he  read  just  now  really  belonged  to 
me.     He  did  them  vicariously,  you  know." 

Then  he  laughed,  in  his  light-hearted 
way.  Now  that  she  had  promised  to  marry 
him,  he  had  not  a  care  in  the  world. 

With  quickened  curiosity  the  girl  glanced 
again  at  the  stranger.  He  was  striding 
along  by  the  side  of  Theodosia,  apparently 
rapt  in  thought.  But  then,  as  Charity 
asked  herself,  how  could  a  man  of  genius 
talk  to  Theodosia.''  Inadvertently,  no 
doubt,  he  had  brought  away  the  little  red 
volume,  and  carried  it,  a  finger  between 
the  leaves.  Would  it  surprise  him,  she 
wondered,  when  he  found  this  out.-*  And 
would  he  read  again  ?  She  hoped  that  he 
would  read  again. 

"He  seems  so  self-conscious,"  she  said, 
almost  to  herself. 

"  Don't  be  prejudiced  against  him,  there 's 
a  dear,"  whispered  Graham,  in  her  ear,  for 


82  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

they  were  now  upon  the  steps  in  the  quay 
side.  It  was  easy  to  him  to  like  people, 
and  Charity  was  always  so  critical.  "  There 
is  generally  something  odd  about  these 
poets.  But  they  can't  help  it,  you  know. 
Prentice  is  a  man  of  deep  feeling,  —  of 
really  fine  feeling.  I  want  you  to  like  him. 
I  have  asked  him  to  stay  with  us.  Let  me 
help  you.      Step  upon  the  seat. " 

A  boat  was  already  waiting  for  them.  A 
flash  of  oars  upon  the  silent  harbour.  Then 
the  rattle  of  a  block  as  the  foresail  was  run 
up,  and  the  "Halcyon"  filled  her  white 
wings  and  stood  up  the  channel,  close  under 
the  cliffs. 

The  wind  was  scarcely  enough  to  make 
the  ship  heel,  although  at  first  she  moved 
through  the  water  briskly  enough.  The  girl 
leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  looked  up  into 
the  clear  summer  sky. 

Graham  was  lying  on  the  deck  beside  her. 
The  others,  with  the  humorous  considera- 
tion due  to  lovers  newly  betrothed,  had  left 
them  to  themselves,  but  for  a  long  while 
they  did  not  talk. 


ALFRED    PRENTICE.  83 

From  a  sharp  rock,  jutting  out  of  the 
water,  a  seagull  rose  and  slowly  wheeled 
over  the  passing  cutter.  How  beautiful  it 
was !  She  could  see  each  feather,  as  it 
hung  for  a  moment  just  above  the  mast. 
Everything  was  sweet  and  calm,  and  lulled 
her  soul  into  contentment.  For  the  first 
time  since  her  engagement,  she  fully  acqui- 
esced in  her  own  happiness.  For  Aunt 
Helen  was  so  happy.  Graham  was  so 
happy.     And  yes,  she  was  happy  too. 

He  raised  his  finger  and  slowly  followed 
the  bird  as  it  circled  overhead,  as  if  he  had 
been  pointing  at  it  with  a  gun. 

"I  should  hate  you  if  you  could  kill  it," 
she  cried,  suddenly  raising  her  head  to  look 
at  him.      "  Could  you  kill  it  ?  " 

"  Not  on  those  terms,"  he  laughed. 

The  gull  uttered  its  shrill  note,  dropped 
astern,  and  settled  again  upon  the  rock. 
But  all  her  restlessness  had  returned.  There 
was  never  an  escape  from  her  own  sensi- 
bility when  a  sight,  a  sound,  or  even  the 
cadence  of  a  word  could  awaken  all  the 
vague  longings  of  her  heart. 


84  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"They  build  upon  the  ledges  of  the  cliff 
—  and  jackdaws  in  the  crevices  too.  I 
used  to  creep  along  at  low  tide  and  pick  up 
the  young  birds.  They  get  tired  and  drop 
when  they  first  begin  to  fly.  Once  I  stayed 
too  long.  You  see  the  slope  where  it  is 
not  quite  so  steep.''  I  had  to  climb  up 
there.  Half-way  up  I  got  stuck.  But 
there  was  no  going  back.  I  had  to  go  on, 
and  I  did." 

The  girl  glanced  at  the  dizzy  height,  with 
its  meagre  foothold,  and  shuddered. 

For  a  moment  she  was  silent;  then  she 
spoke  with  animation:  "You  had  to  go  on, 
and  you  did.  That  expresses  it  exactly, 
Graham.  If  you  had  to  go  on  —  you 
would." 

"What  a  moralist  you  are,  Charity!  "  he 
told  her,  with  half-amused  indolence. 
"  From  reading  so  much  poetry  with  Aunt 
Helen,  you  expect  every  man  to  be  a  hero." 

Her  eyes  sparkled,  and  the  colour  rose 
upon  her  cheek.  "I  could  worship  a  man 
who  did  something,"  she  cried. 

"What.?" 


ALFRED   PRENTICE.  85 

"No  matter  what." 

Startled  at  the  feeling  into  which  she  had 
been  betrayed,  and  for  a  moment  discon- 
certed, she  again  leaned  back  and  looked  up 
at  the  cliffs.  The  tide  was  running  faster 
now,  and  made  a  gurgling  sound  against  the 
cutter's  side.  Above  it  they  could  hear 
the  distant  voice  of  Mrs.  Mortimer,  in 
earnest  discussion  with  Mrs.  Poltimore- 
Briggs :  "  Yes,  of  the  palest  apricot,  cut 
very  full  indeed,  and  interlined  of  course 
with  crin  —  " 

"  Listen  to  the  words  of  wisdom,  Charity, " 
he  whispered,  with  his  imperturbable  good- 
humour. 

"  Oh,  I  hate  it !  "  And  she  clenched  her 
hands  and  quivered  with  nervous  excite- 
ment, "Always  the  same — the  same  —  the 
same.  Except  when  they  talk  of  each 
other,  and  that  's  worse.  One  would  sup- 
pose there  was  nothing  to  think  about,  and 
nothing  to  feel.  And  it  is  all  so  weak  and 
insipid.  It  is  n't  living.  There  is  no  in- 
terest in  it.  It  is  like  sailing  when  there 
is  no  wind.     That  always  makes  me  long 


86  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

for  a  storm.  I  've  been  watching  the  rocks 
now,  and  we  have  n't  gone  five  yards  in  five 
minutes.  I  wish  it  would  blow  a  hurricane 
—  and  carry  us  over  to  Wales  —  so  that  we 
had  to  beat  back  in  the  dead  of  night  —  in 
the  teeth  of  a  driving  rain  —  with  all  of 
them  as  wet  as  drowned  rats,  and  afraid 
too.     That  would  be  sailing." 

"You  would  be  just  as  wet  as  the  rest." 
"  I  should  n't  care.  I  can  picture  it. 
Hailstones  have  beaten  down  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer's back  hair.  She  cannot  turn  her  face 
to  the  gale,  and  one  long,  tapering  lock 
clings  round  her  neck  like  damp  sea-weed. 
The  unsuspected  frame  is  revealed  to  the 
eyes  of  man.  And  her  artificial  set  shakes 
and  chatters  until  the  front  teeth  fall  out. 
Then  I  hold  on  tight  and  am  glad  in  my 
heart." 

Their  eyes  met,  and  they  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. Whatever  its  intensity,  her  ill-humour 
was  short-lived,  and  died  in  whimsicality. 
But  it  left  her  glowing  with  animation,  and 
to  Graham  she  had  never  looked  more 
beautiful. 


ALFRED    PRENTICE.  87 

"  What  an  emotional  girl  you  are, 
Charity ! " 

"Oh!  I  don't  know  what  I  am,"  she  said 
quickly.  "  Aunt  Helen  would  never  tell 
me.  When  she  took  me,  I  became  hers, 
she  said.      Do  you  know,  Graham  ?  " 

"No,"  he  hesitated. 

"But  do  you  know.!""  she  insisted  with 
increasing  eagerness. 

He  paused.  "Truly,  I  do  not  know, 
Charity,"  he  told  her. 

"Sometimes  I  believe  that  I  am  a  differ- 
ent animal  to  the  rest  of  them,  and  that 
they  resent  it,  too.  That 's  common  in  the 
animal  kingdom,  you  know.  Oh,  you 
haven't  the  least  idea  what  you  have  under- 
taken to  marry,  Graham." 

"We  have  known  each  other  long 
enough." 

"You  don't  know  me  a  bit,"  she  cried 
with  decision.  "  They  all  come  and  con- 
gratulate me  now,  of  course,  —  even  Theo- 
dosia.  But  I  know  what  they  say  to  each 
other.  They  surmise  what  Aunt  Helen  has 
to  leave  you,  and  what  you  '11  get  from  your 


88  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

father,  and  then  they  say,  '  Charity  Chance 
has  done  well  for  herself. '  They  hate  me 
for  that.  I  don't  care,  only '  it  is  all  so 
mean;  and  it's  not  true.  I  could  love 
you  ten  times  as  much  if  all  of  a  sud- 
den you  hadn't  a  penny,  and  we  had  to 
begin  in  a  house  the  size  of  a  hutch  — 
and  struggle  on  —  and  fight  it  all  out  — 
and  watch  it  all  grow  up.  That  would  be 
living!" 

With  growing  enthusiasm  her  voice  had 
risen,  and  she  stopped,  as  if  fearing  to  be 
overheard.  Bvit  Mrs.  Mortimer  had  been 
to  a  flower-show  the  day  before,  and  her 
store  of  interesting  information  was  in- 
exhaustible, 

"  A  blouse  of  a  medium  shade  of  green, 
accordion-kilted  chiffon,  with  sleeves  of 
cream  and  pink  chini  silk,  green  satin 
ribbon  at  the  waist,  carried  three  parts  of 
the  way  up  the  figure  —  " 

Then  the  boom  came  home,  and  this 
excellent  woman  ducked  her  head. 

"  You  ought  to  go  and  talk  to  them ! " 
urged   Charity.      "There    is   Mr.    Prentice 


ALFRED    PRENTICE.  89 

receiving  none  of  the  attention  he  deserves 
and  longs  for." 

"He's  all  right,"  replied  Graham,  with 
a  glance  at  the  empty  sail.  "  Besides, 
there  's  plenty  of  time.  The  wind  has 
dropped  and  we  sha'n't  get  home  for  hours 
unless  it  freshens.  I  '11  break  it  to  them 
and  come  back." 

The  wind  did  not  freshen.  The  sun 
sank  behind  a  sea  as  smooth  as  glass,  and 
the  grey  night  crept  along  the  cliffs  and 
wrapt  the  rocks  in  gloom.  The  "  Halcyon  " 
drifted  slowly  homewards  on  the  tide.  The 
girl  stood  with  her  hand  upon  the  stay,  and 
watched  the  stars  peer  clearer  and  clearer 
through  the  darkening  sky.  It  was  alf  so 
unspeakably  beautiful  and  deep  with  mys- 
tery that  she  could  scarcely  keep  from  tears. 
The  women  were  cackling  about  being  so 
late,  but  she  did  not  hear  them.  Graham 
had  spoken  more  than  once,  but  she  did  not 
reply. 

"We  shall  have  to  tow  her  in,"  he  said. 
"I  '11  get  in  the  boat  and  take  an  oar." 

The   boat  was   brought   alongside.       He 


90  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

stepped  into  her,  and  Charity  was  left 
alone. 

To  the  creaking  of  the  oars  against  the 
rowlocks,  they  slowly  glided  into  the  har- 
bour mouth. 

It  was  quite  late.  The  lights  of  Babble- 
mouth  were  mostly  in  the  upper  windows, 
and  long  reflections  fell  in  shimmering  lines 
across  the  black  water  below  the  quay. 
Charity  sighed.  The  gloom  of  the  harbour 
was  so  much  sadder  than  the  pale  starlight 
of  the  open  sea. 

"  Every  candle  there  is  the  beacon  of  a 
tragedy. " 

She  started.  Unobserved,  Alfred  Pren- 
tice had  stepped  upon  the  deck,  and  was 
standing  where  Graham  had  just  now  stood. 

"You  quite  frightened  me,"  she  gasped. 
"  I  did  not  know  any  one  was  near.  But 
surely  that  is  not  so.  It  would  be  terrible 
to  think  that  people  are  not  happy." 

"Only  the  unimportant  is  happy." 

Certainly  no  gaiety  detracted  from  the 
importance  of  Mr.  Alfred  Prentice.  He 
was  oracular  out  of  the  profoundest  depths 
of  sad  experience. 


ALFRED    PRENTICE.  91 

The  words  made  a  deep  impression  upon 
the  girl's  mind;  but  before  she  could  firmly 
grasp  them  to  reply,  the  moment  had  come 
to  go  ashore.  Upon  the  quay  the  party 
quickly  dispersed.  It  was  too  late  to  loiter, 
and  Graham  walked  home  with  her  at  once. 
But  along  the  road  she  was  silent.  "  Only 
the  unimportant  is  happy."  The  phrase 
haunted  her.  Yet  she  could  not  get  hold 
of  it.  It  was  shadowy  and  illusive  —  this 
ghost  of  a  great  truth.  "  Only  the  unim- 
portant is  happy."  Of  course!  people  who 
were  satisfied  with  trivialities  could  get 
them,  —  they  were  common  as  blackberries, 
in  all  conscience.  But  "  only  the  unimpor- 
tant "  —  that  was  so  sad. 

A  touch  of  sadness  could  always  fire  this 
girl's  sympathy,  which,  once  aglow,  must 
needs  shine  on  the  nearest  object. 

"  I  have  been  quite  horrid  to  you  to-night, 
Graham.  I  know  I  have,"  she  confessed, 
as  they  stepped  under  the  porch. 

Then  she  put  her  hands  upon  his  shoul- 
ders and  raised  her  face  to  his. 


92  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"  Not  at  all,  Charity.  You  have  been 
delightful,  as  you  always  are,"  he  cried  in 
rapture. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  kissed  him 
of  her  own  free  will. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    PLEACHED    BOWER. 

The  wicket-gate  at  the  end  of  the  shrub- 
bery path  opened  into  a  ride  through  a 
small  larch  plantation,  whence  a  broken 
footpath  meandered  up  the  coombe-side  to 
the  top  of  the  wood.  The  way  was  steep 
and  rugged.  In  places  huge  boulders  of 
smooth  blue  rock,  hidden  from  below  by 
overspreading  branches,  stood  boldly  out 
from  the  hill. 

Upon  the  crest  of  one  of  these  promonto- 
ries a  leaning  ash  formed  a  natural  and 
unsuspected  bower.  But  for  years  the  place 
had  been  known  to  Charity. 

In  early  childhood,  no  sooner  was  she 
free  of  the  wood  than  this  wild  crag  capti- 
vated her  imagination.  It  was  the  back- 
ground  of   all   her   dreams :   the   scene   in 


94  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

which  was  re-enacted  every  story  she  knew. 
And  Charity's  childhood  had  been  brought 
up  on  stories  of  the  best;  for  the  little  crip- 
ple to  whom  fable  was  more  real  than  fact, 
fascinated  by  the  open-eyed  wonder  of  the 
child,  would  go  on  and  on  for  hours.  Thus 
the  place  became  by  turns  a  bandit's  castle, 
the  Tarpeian  rock,  and  the  cave  of  Poly- 
pheme.  And  it  was  all  her  own ;  for  either 
Graham  had  not  heard  the  stories,  or  from 
a  tree-top  looked  down  with  lordly  con- 
tempt upon  such  make-believes. 

This  haunt  had  never  lost  its  charm. 
The  fading  visions  of  childish  fancy  were 
replaced  by  a  keen  sense  of  the  natural 
beauty  of  the  nook.  There  Charity  spent 
many  a  summer  hour,  and  no  one  ever  came. 
The  casual  trespasser  wandered  heedless 
by.  Unaware  that  he  was  watched,  the 
village  boy  ran  through  the  wood  below, 
and  stopped  to  peer  into  the  trees  for  nests. 
And  this  inviolable  secrecy  made  of  this 
bower  a  sanctuary  to  which  the  girl  fled 
when  pursued  by  the  spirit  of  her  own 
restlessness. 


THE   PLEACHED   BOWER.       95 

There  also  she  often  went  to  work.  The 
evening  readings  with  Miss  Graham,  al- 
though they  sometimes  lasted  deep  into 
the  night,  could  not  satisfy  her  passion  for 
poetry  and  fiction.  And  there  was  no 
dearth  of  books,  besides,  for  strange  volumes 
from  the  library  of  the  late  Dr.  Graham, 
sleeping  in  one  of  the  disused  rooms  of 
Babblemouth  House,  found  their  way  into 
the  hands  of  Charity  Chance. 

Moreover,  she  was  writing  a  tale,  and 
had  been  for  a  long  time:  a  story  of  village 
life,  which  made  little  progress  because  she 
never  could  satisfy  herself  with  what  was 
done.  In  the  room  above  the  porch,  at 
night  when  all  was  still,  in  an  ecstasy  of 
excitement  and  delight  she  would  write 
pages.  It  was  beautiful.  She  could  see 
it  —  feel  it  all  —  and,  read  by  the  pale  lamp- 
light, it  filled  her  eyes  with  tears.  She  lay 
awake  with  gladness  to  dream  it  over  again. 
But  in  the  morning,  in  the  calm  solitude  of 
her  retreat,  everything  was  changed.  The 
freshness  had  faded;  the  sweetness  was 
gone.     It   was   no  better   than   the   flower 


96  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

plucked  yesterday  and  withered  in  an  hour. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  impossible  that  a 
thing  wrought  with  such  emotion  could  be 
so  poor.  Then  in  despair  she  cast  it  aside 
and  did  no  more  for  weeks. 

Yet  the  hope  never  forsook  her  heart. 
To  the  child  of  her  imagination  she  must 
at  last  return.  And  meanwhile  she  watched 
eagerly  to  catch  the  soul  of  humble  country 
life,  and  the  quaint  ways  of  it,  which  looked 
so  much  like  humours  and  were  not. 

Amongst  other  things,  she  collected  the 
sayings  of  John  Sprake. 

Already  they  covered  reams,  those  similes 
bequeathed  from  an  old  world  where  no  man 
might  be  merely  bald,  but  "so  bald  as  a 
bladder  o'  lard,"  and  nothing  crooked  was 
allowed  to  be  less  Crooked  than  "a  dog's 
hind  leg."  The  furniture  of  John's  brain 
had  been  in  his  family  for  generations. 

After  the  sail  some  days  elapsed  before 
she  again  met  Mr.  Prentice.  He  mooned 
away  by  himself  along  the  cliffs,  Graham 
told  her  with  a  laugh.  She  could  understand 
that.     He  had  need  of  solitude  to  mature 


THE   PLEACHED   BOWER.       97 

his  great  thoughts.  But  even  to  have 
spoken  to  a  poet  reawakened  all  her  long- 
ings and  aspirations.  Again  the  neglected 
manuscript  saw  the  light,  and  she  carried  it 
that  morning  with  her  into  the  wood. 

The  summer  weather  remained  unchanged, 
and  through  the  still  air  came  quite  clearly 
the  talk  and  laughter  of  haymakers  in  the 
meadows  across  the  coombe.  "  Captain-ah, 
Whoa !  "  called  the  boy  to  his  horses  as  they 
moved  the  load.  In  one  of  the  great  oaks 
above  a  wood-pigeon  kept  cooing  all  the 
time. 

There  came  a  footstep  in  the  wood.  She 
raised  her  head  to  listen,  but  she  did  not 
look.  What  could  it  matter  to  her  who 
passed  that  way.''  She  was  secure  from 
interruption  in  her  retreat,  and  with  impa- 
tience she  turned  again  to  the  closely  writ- 
ten sheet. 

Suddenly  from  below  came  the  voice  of 
Jan  Sprake  raised  in  high  expostulation. 

"There  idden  no  vootpath  thik  way,  zir. 
You  can't  go  'long  there  no  ways  't  all. 
I  've  agot  my  orders  zo  clear  as  the  day, 
7 


98  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

to  turn  everybeddy  back  out  o'  thcas  wood. 
Gentle  or  simple,  back  they  've  agot  to  go, 
sure  as  a  gun.  There  idden  no  two  ways 
'bout  it.  'T  is  so  much  as  my  life  's  wo'th 
if  Squire  Poltimore-Briggs  were  to  zee. 
He  'd  rear  the  place.  I  have  agot  to  be 
kep'  zo  quiet  as  the  grave —  'bout  the  pheas- 
ants, you  see,  zir. " 

From  the  height  of  argument  Jan's  voice 
gradually  sank  into  the  confidential  whisj^er 
of  regret.  He  was  such  a  stickler  for  duty, 
however  painful  it  might  be.  Charity  crept 
forward  and  peered  over  the  brink  of  the 
rock.  Jan  had  taken  off  his  hat,  and  was 
ostentatiously  wiping  his  heated  brow  with 
a  red  handkerchief.  Mr.  Prentice  stood 
looking  at  him  with  an  evident  lack  of  inter- 
est as  to  whether  he  went  forward  or  back, 
which  nothing  could  disconcert. 

"I  only  came  here  out  of  the  sun,"  he 
said. 

"You  zee,"  Jan  went  on  instructively, 
"  there  's  a  hen-  pheasant  —  or  may  be  two  — 
do  nest  here  so  reg'lar  as  the  year.  An'  if 
he  don't  vind  'em,   why.  Squire  Briggs  he 


THE   PLEACHED   BOVVER.       99 

do  fus  about  like  a  vly  in  a  glue-pot.  An' 
he  don't  forget  to  talk  loud,  nother.  But 
there,  to  be  sure,  a  gen'leman  like  you  don' 
want  to  go  a-tearen  about  the  wood  like  a 
mad  feller  —  No,  no.  You  thought  just  to 
stalkety  roun'  like,  under  the  shade  o'  the 
leaf  like." 

"It  is  of  no  consequence.  I  '11  get  back 
the  way  I  came,"  interrupted  the  great  man 
in  his  impressive  bass,  and  turned  upon  his 
heel. 

"There,  you  've  agot  no  call  to  do  that," 
said  Jan,  in  a  manner  suddenly  become 
coaxing.  "There  idden  a  soul  'pon  earth 
to  say  a  word  to  ee  'ithout  't  is  I  myzelf,  an' 
I  mus'  run  back  zo  shuttle  as  a  rabbit,  an' 
exercise  my  ho'ses.  Why,  you  mid  walk 
here  till  doomsday  an'  no  man  never  the 
wiser.  An'  you  had  no  need  to  zay  I  've 
a-zeed  ee.  I  sha'n't  come  up  to  ee  no  more. 
Fags !  I  be  pretty  well  a-sweltered,  sure 
'nough.  There,  't  is  my  duty  to  come  up, 
fear  't  is  some  poachen  feller,  look-y-zee. 
There,  vor  my  part,  I  do  often  wish  to  God 
there  were  no  pheasants,  e'ens  's  mid  zay. 


lOO  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

For  'tis  wo'th  a  shillen  to  come  up  here. 
Zo  't  is.      Pon  my  life  'tis." 

In  vain  he  dramatically  mopped  his  head, 
for  the  retiring  trespasser  did  not  turn 
round. 

.     "  All  a  shillen, "  reflected  Jan  Sprake,  with 
deep  conviction. 

But  there  was  no  response. 

"An'  more  too,"  he  growled  with  grow- 
ing discontent. 

"This  gentleman  is  a  friend  of  Mr.  Polti- 
more,  John." 

Jan  was  startled.  The  voice,  familiar  but 
indignant,  came  out  of  the  clouds.  As  he 
explained  later  on,  when  subsequent  pro- 
ceedings had  rendered  even  this  small  inci- 
dent of  public  interest,  he  was  that  "tookt 
aback"  that  he  turned  "  so  white  as  a  hound's 
tooth."  He  looked  all  ways  to  once.  An' 
there,  sure  enough,  were  Miss  Charity 
a-stood  'pon  top  o'  the  rock  so  bold  as  a 
statute. 

But  Jan  thought  nothing  of  this  at  the 
time.  He  only  muttered  an  apology,  that 
he  saw  the  gen'leman  wur  a  gen'leman  so 


THE   PLEACHED   BOWER.      loi 

soon  as  ever  he  clapped  eyes  'pon  un,  and 
if  it  had  n'  a-bin  for  his  duty  he  would  n' 
a-wored  out  shoe-leather  to  a-comed  up. 
Then  he  turned  away  and  went  thought- 
fully home  to  the  house. 

Alfred  Prentice  caught  a  glimpse  of  a 
pale  summer  frock  disappearing  amongst 
the  leaves.  Then  Charity  came  hurrying 
down  the  wood  to  him. 

She  felt  ashamed,  and,  in  anxiety  to  prove 
him  welcome,  spoke  with  warmth,  almost 
with  emotion.  "  Please  do  not  go  away, 
Mr.  Prentice.  I  am  quite  sure  Miss  Graham 
would  be  vexed  beyond  measure.  The  fool- 
ish man  has  been  here  so  long  that  he  be- 
lieves the  place  his,  and  acts  entirely  with- 
out authority.  And  as  to  pheasants,  — there 
are  no  pheasants.  There  was  one  once, 
but,  rest  his  soul!  he's  dead.  You  are 
more  likely,  it  appears,  to  meet  with  a  beast 
of  prey." 

"Or  a  Dryad,  perhaps,"  he  suggested 
solemnly.  Then  noticing  the  roll  of  papers 
in  her  hand,  he  added :  "  But  you  were  at 
work,   and    I    have    interrupted  you."     He 


I02  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

appeared  pained.  His  brow  contracted 
with  sympathetic  grief,  and  his  voice  quite 
quavered  with  regret.  It  seemed  to  say: 
"Too  well  I  know  myself  these  terrible 
encroachments  upon  the  solitude  of  the 
soul." 

,  She  hastened  to  reassure  him.  "  Oh  !  I 
only  amuse  myself.  I  like  to  go  up  under 
the  trees  out  of  sight  and  sit  alone.  I  have 
found  a  place  where  no  one  ever  comes." 

"Show  me  such  a  place,"  he  said  quite 
softly,  and  sighed. 

Was  this  affectation.''  Or  merely  the 
manner  natural  to  a  spirit  very  delicately 
strung  .-*  As  she  led  the  way  between  the 
gnarled  trunks  and  under  the  twisted 
branches  of  the  oaks,  she  kept  asking  her- 
self this  question.  For  what  was  affecta- 
tion in  another  might  be  quite  natural  to  a 
poet. 

They  reached  the  top  of  the  rock.  Half 
hidden  by  brake  and  undergrowth  lay  a 
slanting  slab  of  stone,  and  without  cere- 
mony he  sat  down  upon  it.  He  took  off  his 
hat,  and  passed  his  hand  over  his  long  black 


THE   PLEACHED   BOWER.      103 

hair,  but  for  a  while  he  did  not  speak.  The 
house,  the  mill,  and  the  cottages  below 
looked  like  toys,  and  from  this  height  the 
distant  line  of  the  blue  sea  came  almost 
level  with  the  brim  of  the  cliffs. 

"Those  are  the  happy  people,"  he  said, 
pointing  down  at  the  haymakers.  "They 
understand  each  other  and  are  understood. 
Their  life  is  full  of  light  and  laughter. 
They  are  never  alone.  They  never  seek  a 
place  where  no  one  comes." 

He  spoke  with  deep  melancholy,  in  pity 
mostly  for  himself,  but  partly  for  a  people 
so  supremely  happy. 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  met  you  again,  Mr. 
Prentice,"  said  the  girl,  warmly.  "Some- 
thing you  said  the  other  night  impressed  me 
deeply.  I  was  afraid  you  might  be  going. 
Do  you  remember  saying  that  in  every  house 
is  some  great  tragedy .-'  That  may  be,  per- 
haps, and  people  keep  their  deeper  troubles 
hidden.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  into  every 
life  comes  a  great  sorrow.  Now  these 
people  that  you  speak  of —  I  know  them  all 
—  every  one.     They  are  too  simple  to  hide 


104  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

a  trouble.  They  seem  to  want  to  tell  it  to 
get  relief.  That  tall  woman,  for  instance, 
raking  apart  by  herself  is  a  widow.  Only 
last  week  she  lost  her  son,  killed  in  a  col- 
liery in  Wales.  And  he  was  so  good  to 
her  too." 

The  girl  spoke  in  deep  earnest;  and  the 
last  phrase  as  she  uttered  it  was  rich  with 
sympathy  and  regret.  He  scarcely  glanced 
at  the  lonely  figure  in  the  field,  for  already, 
whilst  Charity  was  speaking,  he  had  drifted 
into  reverie.  The  cadence  of  that  sentence 
recalled  his  attention.  Not  the  real  sorrow 
of  the  woman,  so  much  as  the  sound  of 
Charity's  voice,  touched  his  sensibilities. 
The  emotion  of  the  girl  was  more  powerful 
to  move  him  than  the  story  itself,  which 
indeed  he  could  not  have  correctly  told. 
"  And  he  was  so  good  to  her  too. "  She 
was  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  rock,  and 
when  he  looked  up,  there  was  at  least  a 
moisture  in  his  eyes.  Had  she  spoken  ten 
words  more,  he  would  have  been  in  tears. 

What  a  heart  this  man  has !  thought 
Charity.      She   felt  humiliated   to   remem- 


THE   PLEACHlfeD   BOWER.      105 

ber  that  at  first  she  had  accused  him  of 
affectation. 

He  began  to  talk,  quickly  and  with  grow- 
ing excitement. 

"Yes,"  he  sighed,  "there  is  always  a 
deep  sorrow.  But  the  griefs  that  are  com- 
mon to  humanity  are  understood  of  all  man- 
kind. Death  comes,  and  people  flock  with 
flowers  to  hide  the  barren  blackness  of  the 
bier.  Even  strangers  lay  a  cool  sweet  leaf 
upon  the  wound,  and  soon  there  remains 
nothing  but  a  scar,  at  last  forgotten  if  it  be 
not  rudely  touched.  But  who  can  minister 
to  the  unknown  sorrows  of  the  mind  .'*  The 
lost  illusion,  who  shall  replace  it.''  Or 
who  lay  the  haunting  memory  of  a  dead 
hope.^ " 

He  paused,  and  looked  away  across  the  sea. 

"But  surely  — "  She  hesitated.  His 
words  moved  her  to  compassion,  they 
sounded  so  real,  and  she  felt  shy  of  seem- 
ing not  to  understand.  "  Surely  it  is  better 
to  outlive  an  illusion.  That  is  —  well  — 
one  step  towards  truth.  And  to  bury  a  hope 
is  not  despair.      Other  hopes  spring  up." 


io6  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

She  stopped  abruptly.  He  had  fixed  his 
eyes  upon  her,  and  she  was  disconcerted. 
Her  halting  sentences  could  go  no  further. 

"  I  am  glad  I  wandered  this  way.  From 
the  first  moment  I  saw  you  at  Poltimore's  I 
wanted  to  talk  to  you,"  he  went  on,  speak- 
ing quite  intimately,  as  if  he  had  known  her 
for  years.  "The  other  people  had  been 
bothering  me  —  making  me  read  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  But  I  knew  that  you  were 
sympathetic.  I  felt  it  would  be  a  precious 
privilege  to  know  you.  And  they  had 
been  saying  you  were  so  fond  of  poetry. 
Ah  —     Have  you  read  me  ?  " 

Very  little,  she  was  forced  to  confess. 

"Do  you  come  here  every  day?  " 

"Oh,  no.     Only  occasionally.'* 

"To-morrow.''  " 

"  I  never  know  beforehand.  I  must  go. 
I  see  Miss  Graham  in  the  garden.  She 
will  want  me." 

"Come  to-morrow,"  he  whispered;  "and 
if  you  will  permit  me  I  should  like  to  bring 
you  my  poor  book.  What  there  is  of  me  is 
in  it." 


THE   PLEACHED   BOWER.      107 

She  thanked  him  heartily  in  her  frank 
girlish  way.  "  I  am  quite  sure  it  is  beauti- 
ful," she  said;  and  having  hastily  shaken 
hands,  she  hurried  down  the  hill. 

She  came  into  the  garden  glowing  with 
excitement  and  delight.  Her  imagination 
was  on  fire.  She  had  talked  of  something 
deeper  than  the  babble  and  trivialities  of 
Babblemouth.  And  from  what  a  depth  of 
sympathy  and  understanding  he  had  spoken ! 
He  indeed  must  have  suffered  some  great 
sorrow,  —  she  could  feel  that  in  every  word 
he  uttered. 

Miss  Graham  was  sitting  in  the  bath-chair 
on  the  lawn. 

"  Why,  Charity,  what  a  colour  you  have, 
child!  T  feel  the  wind  here.  Push  me 
down  to  the  drooping  ash.  Where  have  you 
been }" 

"  In  the  wood ;  I  met  Mr.  Prentice,  and 
had  quite  a  talk  with  him.  Graham's  friend, 
you  know,  —  the  poet." 

"Poet!"  flashed  out  the  shrewd  little 
lady,  with  an  impatient  wave  of  the  hand. 
"That  's  not  a  poet.     I  have  seen  him  on 


io8  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

the  road  several  times,  but  to  look  at  him 
once  is  quite  enough.  No,  dear,  I  have 
met  men  of  genius,  in  years  gone  by.  Some 
of  them  had  odd  ways,  but  underneath  all 
was  real  —  soul,  or  passion,  or  a  great  heart, 
with  only  a  thin  shell  of  folly.  But  there 
is  nothing  real  about  that  person  —  except 
the  affectation.  A  little  farther,  dear. 
There.     Stop." 

The  girl's  face  was  out  of  sight  behind 
the  creases  of  the  leather  hood,  and  her 
impulse  to  make  quick  reply  passed  unob- 
served of  those  keen  grey  eyes.  She  too 
had  harboured  a  like  prejudice,  and  she 
longed  to  contradict  —  to  set  this  false  im- 
pression right.  But  there  were  moments  of 
rapid  nervous  perception,  when  Miss  Gra- 
ham could  not  brook  even  a  difference  of 
opinion.  And  she  had  spoken  with  such 
emphatic,  clear  decision.  The  moment 
passed,  and  Charity  remained  silent.  She 
had  been  on  the  verge  of  speaking  of  to- 
morrow and  the  expected  book.  But  that 
was  not  possible  now,  and  the  words  died 
on  her  lips.     Yet  she  felt  mean,  to  find  she 


THE   PLEACHED   BOWER.      109 

had  not  courage  to  defend  this  man  who  had 
already  interested  her  so  much.  And  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  not  alto- 
gether frank  with  the  woman  whose  tender- 
ness had  befriended  her  for  more  years  than 
memory  could  look  back. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 


EVERMORE    TATTLING. 


From  that  moment  of  reticence  a  new 
and  growing  unrest  began  to  trouble  the 
soul  of  Charity  Chance.  The  finer  instinct, 
which  stirred  her  indignation  against  the 
Babblemouth  folk,  and  made  her  writhe 
under  their  littleness,  turned  upon  itself. 
Hitherto  no  stain  of  conscious  meanness 
had  ever  sullied  her  self-respect.  Slights, 
like  pruning,  only  forced  her  pride  into 
stronger  growth.  She  had  never  known 
anything  to  hide,  nor  to  fear,  nor  to  reproach 
herself  with. 

But  on  the  following  day  she  waited  until 
Miss  Graham  was  busy  with  her  letters, 
and  watched  Jan  Sprake  into  the  stable, 
before  going  into  the  wood.     To  avoid  the 


EVERMORE   TATTLING.         iii 

open  path  she  climbed  the  hill  under  cover 
of  the  trees.  The  book,  which  was  quite 
small,  she  brought  home  in  her  pocket,  and 
read  throughout  the  night  in  the  little 
chamber  above  the  porch. 

Some  of  the  verses  were  love-songs,  and 
they  had  a  deeper  reality  because  she  knew 
the  man  who  wrote  them.  Line  after  line 
she  read  and  re-read  aloud,  and  in  the  still- 
ness every  word  spoke  to  her.  They  filled 
her  brain  with  excitement,  they  set  her 
heart  on  fire.  In  the  glow  of  it  her  imagina- 
tion shaped  fantastic  stories  of  the  hopeless 
love  of  Alfred  Prentice.  He  was  so  sad  and 
melancholy  —  and  again  to-day  he  had  talked 
of  loneliness  and  sympathy.  He  had  loved 
—  and  lost.  Not  dead,  but  faithless,  the 
maiden  who  had  wrecked  his  life.  Fallen 
away,  because  she  could  not  understand. 
This  dream  was  so  vivid  that  it  imprinted 
itself  upon  Charity's  mind  like  fact.  She 
pitied  him  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 

One  poem  she  could  not  comprehend. 
The  words  were  magnificent,  and  the  sound 
almost  sublime,  but  the  sense  was  illusive, 


112  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

and  escaped  her  again  and  again.  If  she 
might  only  hear  it  read,  she  thought,  she 
could  catch  the  meaning.  And  he  had 
begged  her  to  meet  him  again.  To  give 
him  frankly  her  opinion  upon  his  poor  trifles, 
he  said. 

She  had  not  promised,  but  the  desire  to 
go  became  irresistible.  After  all  she  was 
but  following  the  habit  of  her  leisure  in 
going  into  the  wood.  There  was  no  harm 
in  talking  to  a  friend  of  the  man  to  whom 
she  was  engaged.  Yet  she  felt  with  disgust 
that  these  unsuspected  interviews  more  and 
more  engrossed  her  thoughts.  And  to 
Graham  she  had  not  mentioned  Alfred 
Prentice's  name.  "You  have  chosen  the 
one  to  me  the  most  precious,"  sighed  the 
poet,  and  read,  as  he  assured  her,  with  the 
greatest  pleasure.  She  was  too  shy  to  ask 
him  what  it  meant. 

So  the  days  passed  on.  Prentice  still 
remained  in  Babblemouth,  lodging  in  one 
of  the  little  houses  looking  down  uj^on  the 
quay.  But  when  the  first  glory  of  the  ris- 
ing celebrity  faded  in  the  commonplace  light 


EVERMORE   TATTLING.         113 

of  familiar  day,  there  was  no  end  to  the 
criticisms  of  the  Babblemouth  folk.  They 
sneered  at  his  loitering  ways,  and  laughed 
at  the  length  of  his  hair.  "But  then,  there 
is  always  something  odd,"  said  Theodosia, 
"about  people  who  are  supposed  to  be 
clever. " 

Such  little  disparagements  stung  Charity 
to  the  quick.  Retorts  came  upon  the  tip 
of  her  tongue,  but  she  could  not  trust  her- 
self to  utter  them.  Within  her  heart 
smouldered  an  anger  she  dared  not  disclose. 
A  breath  must  blow  it  into  flame.  Yet 
how  ungenerous  to  remain  silent  and  hear 
a  higher  intelligence  attacked  by  fools ! 
It  was  hard  to  contain  herself,  yet  harder 
still  to  contemplate  her  own  cowardice. 

There  comes  at  last  a  moment  when  the 
bow  snaps. 

They  had  come  over  to  Babblecombe 
one  afternoon,  these  Babblemouth  people. 
There  was  tea  by  the  corner  of  the  lawn,  and 
Graham  was  handing  round  the  bread-and- 
butter.  The  unwillingness  of  Mr.  Poltimore- 
Briggs  to  stand  for  Parliament  had  been  fully 
8 


114  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

discussed.  His  reluctant  yielding  to  over- 
whelming persuasion  in  spite  of  her  entrea- 
ties, Mrs.  Poltimore-Briggs  had  dramatically 
described. 

"  It  was  no  good  for  me  to  say  anything, 
my  dear,"  she  assured  Miss  Graham;  "none 
whatever.  His  Lordship  met  him  and  said, 
'You'd  better  stand,  Poltimore. '  His 
Lordship  always  forgets  and  calls  him 
Poltimore,  you  know.  'You  'd  better  stand, 
and  do  your  best  to  push  out  the  Radical. ' 
So  he  consented. "  Then  she  threw  up  her 
hands  in  despair. 

"Talking  of  Radicals,"  cried  Mrs.  Mor- 
timer, stopping  at  every  few  words  to  dip 
her  beak  into  the  tea-cup.  "The  Rector 
says  —  though  of  course  he  would  not  have 
it  repeated  for  the  world  as  coming  from 
him  —  that  Mr.  Prentice  is  an  awful  Rad- 
ical. Doesn't  believe  in  God  —  nor  in 
Queen  Victoria  —  nor  tithes.  Well!  I 
think  any  man  who  would  rob  a  church 
does  n't  deserve  to  live.  But  I  never  thought 
he  looked  quite  a  gentleman." 

"What   is  he  doins  here?"    asked  Miss 


EVERMORE   TATTLING.         115 

Graham,  carelessly.  "  Charity  fell  across 
him  the  other  day  in  the  wood.  Didn't 
you  say  so,  Charity  .!•  " 

But  before  the  girl  could  answer,  Mrs. 
Poltimore-Briggs  had  started  again. 

"  My  dear,  that  is  just  the  way  he  wan- 
ders about.  No  doubt  he  thinks  the  wood 
is  his.  The  poetic  imagination  knows  no 
bounds,  you  know.  Oh,  I  don't  know  what 
he  is  doing  here.  We  asked  him  to  come 
to  us,  but  he  told  Graham  he  would  rather 
be  free.  We  didn't  want  him,  of  course. 
We  thought  it  would  be  only  civil,  as  he 
used  to  be  a  friend  of  Graham.  But  since 
he  prefers  the  freedom  of  old  mother  Dib- 
bin's  two  stuffy  little  rooms  —  well,  so 
much  the  better.  What  was  that  she  said 
to  you,  Theodosia.?  You  told  me  the  other 
day." 

Theodosia  shone  with  the  pride  of  pro- 
prietary information. 

"  Oh,  that  was  nothing !  I  believe  she 
was  in  doubt  about  her  rent.  She  only  said 
she  supposed  it  was  all  right,  as  he  was  a 
friend  of    Mr.    Poltimore-Briggs,   but    she 


Ii6  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

never  took  in  anybody  before  with  such  a 
few  things.  No  more  cloth  clothes  than 
what  he  stood  upright  in,  and  only  three 
shirts  to  his  back." 

"  Then  no  doubt  you  pointed  out  to  her 
the  impertinence  of  talking  about  the  private 
affairs  of  other  people. " 

The  shaft  was  sudden  and  unexpected. 
The  hot  blood  rushed  to  the  cheek  of  the 
wounded  Theodosia,  and  Mrs.  Poltimore- 
Briggs  was  reduced  to  silence  and  aston- 
ishment. Beside  the  small  round  table, 
brought  from  the  drawing-room  for  the 
occasion,  stood  Charity,  contemptuous  and 
defiant,  clutching  a  china  tea-pot  in  her 
hand. 

"  Charity !  Charity  dear !  "  murmured 
in  remonstrance  little  Miss  Graham;  but 
her  lips  were  twitching  with  suppressed 
amusement. 

"I  think  three  sufificient  for  Prentice," 
cried  Graham,  with  an  air  of  grave  deliber- 
ation. He  had  thrown  himself  upon  the 
grass,  and  was  enjoying  well-merited  rest 
after  overwhelming  exertions.     "You  see, 


EVERMORE   TATTLING.         117 

he  doesn't  ride  'em  so  very  hard.  He  lies 
in  bed  by  day,  and  sits  up  at  night  in  a  red 
damask  dressing-gown  awaiting  the  rosy- 
footed  dawn.  The  early  morning  chills  the 
imagination.  The  best  inspiration  comes 
with  a  smell  of  parafhn.  It  is  all  tommy- 
rot  about  Nature.  These  chaps  only  know 
the  names  of  things.  Prentice  can't  tell 
an  ash  from  an  Arbele  poplar.  I  'd  bet  two 
to  one  whenever  the  leaves  turn  up  white  in 
the  wind  he  thinks  it  's  a  willow.  He 
makes  up  a  Nature  of  his  own  in  bed  with 
the  blind  drawn  down.  I  went  to  look  him 
up  the  other  afternoon.  They  said  he 
wasn't  down  yet,  and  I  ran  up  and  rapped 
at  his  bedroom  door.  '  Who  's  there,  what 
do  you  want  ?  '  responded  a  voice  muffled 
with  counterpane.  '  Are  you  ill.  Prentice.'' ' 
I  said.  '  Shall  I  come  in } '  There  was  a 
brief  pause  whilst  he  struggled  free  of  the 
counterpane.  *  Go  'way,  go  'way, '  he 
yelled;  'I'm  busy.'" 

Charity  did  not  join  in  the  laughter  which 
followed.  She  did  not  take  the  tale  for 
truth,  but  only  as  one  of  Graham's  irrespon- 


ii8  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

sible  stories,  and  she  was  vexed  that  he 
had  not  sided  with  her. 

"But  I  thought  you  liked  him,"  she  cried 
with  eagerness. 

"So  I  did,"  he  admitted.  "But  I  can't 
stand  him  now." 

"Or  understand,"  she  retorted,  quick  as 
thought. 

No  wonder  that  Charity  Chance  was  not 
universally  beloved.  But  Graham  loved  her 
with  all  his  heart,  and  it  was  in  admiration 
that  he  whispered  as  he  rose  to  his  feet : 
"  I  believe  you  see  the  frivolities  of  every- 
body you  know,  and  believe  in  the  virtues 
of  everybody  you  don't  know,"  His  tender- 
ness touched  her. 

"  But  you  are  not  going  yet,  Graham  ? " 

"The  Governor  has  an  open-air  meeting 
on  the  down,  and  I  must  walk  over  to  it. 
Come  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  Charity,"  he 
begged. 

So  they  presently  went  together,  side  by 
side,  up  the  white  dusty  road.  "  She  is  so 
high-minded,  and  he  has  such  a  good  heart," 
thought  the  little  cripple  as  her  eyes  fol- 


EVERMORE   TATTLING.         119 

lowed  them  every  step  of  the  way.  "  They 
were  made  for  each  other,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. And  indeed  it  looked  so  as  they  slowly 
passed  out  of  sight  on  the  hill- top. 


CHAPTER   IX. 


IN    THE    WOOD. 


No  matter  if  she  were  late.  Aunt  Helen 
would  not  mind  in  the  least.  And  the 
Babblemouth  people  would  stay.  Oh  yes! 
The  Babblemouth  people  would  be  pleased 
to  stay.  So  Charity  walked  some  distance 
with  Graham,  being  willing  to  make 
amends.  When  at  last  she  got  back 
to  the  hill-top,  the  sun  was  glowing  red 
through  a  belt  of  grey  mist  over  the 
sea;  a  hawk  was  hovering  high  above  the 
cliff. 

She  stood  upon  the  ridge  awhile  to  rest, 
a  solitary  figure  in  bold  relief  against  the 
sky.  The  people  on  the  lawn  saw  and 
discussed  as  to  whether  it  were  she.  Theo- 
dosia  thought  the  person  far  too  tall. 


IN   THE   WOOD.  121 

The  embers  of  resentment  were  still 
burning  within  her  heart.  What  a  little 
world  where  peo^^le  were  so  ready  to  be- 
little everybody!  And  she  had  promised  to 
spend  her  life  in  this  coombe,  —  this  tea-cup. 
Ever  the  same  dreary  little  round,  with 
no  true  sympathy,  no  understanding.  She 
thought  a  great  deal  about  true  sympathy 
since  Alfred  Prentice  once  used  the  words. 

Of  late,  also,  a  question  kept  arising  in 
her  mind  to  which  no  answer  could  possi- 
bly be  found.  It  lived  with  her  by  day, 
it  haunted  her  by  night.  It  tormented  her 
like  a  lost  word.  Whence  had  she  been 
brought  here  ?  To  whom  had  she  belonged 
in  nature  and  in  love.''  who  nevertheless 
parted  with  her  without  a  pang.  For  surely 
they  might  at  least  have  longed  to  watch 
over  her  welfare.  It  flashed  across  her  mind 
that  out  of  jealousy  of  possession  Miss 
Graham  had  prevented  all  communication. 
"You  were  mine,"  she  had  told  her,  "after 
I  took  you."  In  a  moment  of  passionate 
yearning  the  girl  cried  out  that  she  had 
been  robbed,  —  that  nothing  could  recom- 


122  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

pcnse  for  the  love  implanted  by  Nature 
which  must  have  filled  her  life.  Then  she 
burst  into  tears  of  contrition  at  her  own 
ingratitude. 

These  moods  of  vague  restlessness  had 
become  very  common  with  her  of  late. 

In  the  courtyard  below  still  remained  the 
carriage  of  Mrs.  Poltimore-Briggs.  The 
presence  of  that  exemplary  woman  relieved 
Charity  from  haste.  A  footpath,  little  used, 
ran  along  the  hill  around  the  brim  of  the 
coombe.  After  the  dry  road  the  grass  was 
soft  and  cool,  and  the  girl  walked  on 
towards  the  wood. 

She  came  upon  two  rustic  lovers  loiter- 
ing by  a  stile,  too  absorbed  in  themselves 
and  each  other  to  hear  her  coming  footsteps 
on  the  turf.  In  uncouth  fashion  the  youth's 
arm  encircled  the  girl's  waist.  To  let 
Charity  pass,  they  started  back,  happy, 
blushing,  conscious,  but  complete.  "Yes, 
these  are  the  happy  people,"  she  said  to 
herself;  "they  understand  each  other  and 
are  understood." 

But  Graham  would  never  understand  her. 


IN   THE   WOOD.  123 

Already  the  engagement  began  to  oppress 
her  soul.  Why  should  she  marry?  She 
did  not  want  to  marry.  She  would  rather 
go  into  the  world,  and  fight,  and  earn  her 
living,  and  be  free.  Those  people  who 
gave  her  up  must  have  been  poor  and  afraid. 
Fools !  She  would  have  worked  for  them. 
No,  no !  They  were  good,  and  out  of  ten- 
derness desired  for  her  more  than  they  had 
to  give. 

No  sunshine  fell  upon  the  trees  to-night. 
The  distant  haze  drank  up  the  glory  of  the 
light,  and  the  leaden  sea  melted  and  was 
lost  in  violet  cloud.  By  the  time  Charity 
reached  the  wood,  beneath  the  heavy 
branches  it  was  growing  dusk.  It  must  be 
later  than  she  had  thought.  Something 
moved,  and  a  pigeon  flew  from  the  ivy  close 
beside  her.  She  quickened  her  pace  for 
fear  of  being  overtaken  by  the  darkness. 

"Miss  Chance!" 

The  voice  startled  her.  She  knew  it  well, 
and  it  made  her  heart  beat  fast.  She  had 
not  thought  of  meeting  him  to-night,  and  a 
strange   fear   fell    upon  her  —  of  what  she 


124  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

knew  not.  She  must  not  stay.  Yet  at  the 
sound  of  her  name  she  stopped. 

She  heard  him  hurrying  down  the  hill- 
side. A  loose  stone  came  rolling  amongst 
the  briers  by  her  feet,  and  in  his  haste  he 
stumbled  over  an  uncovered  twisted  root. 

"I  was  sure  I  should  meet  you,"  he  stam- 
mered, still  breathless  from  his  effort  to 
recover  himself.  "  The  idea  got  hold  of  me 
so  that  I  was  compelled  to  come.  It  was 
an  inspiration." 

"  I  am  just  going  in,"  she  replied  quickly, 
for  his  eager  manner  heightened  her  agita- 
tion; then  she  turned  to  continue  on  her 
way. 

"  Not  for  a  few  minutes,  pray.  And  I 
will  walk  down  with  you  to  the  fir  copse. 
Let  me  help  you,  Charity.  I  may  say 
Charity  here  in  the  twilight,  may  I  not? 
Give  me  your  hand;  the  gloom  of  the  trees 
makes  it  so  dark." 

She  could  not  refuse,  and  he  helped  her 
over  the  broken  stones  and  out-cropping 
rock. 

"  We  have  had  so  many  talks  here  in  the 


IN   THE   WOOD.  125 

wood,  and  my  mind  was  full  of  you.  I 
could  think  of  nothing  else.  You  became 
a  necessity  to  me.  Then  I  came  out  here 
where  the  very  leaves  whisper  of  you.  Be- 
sides, I  knew  you  would  come.  It  was 
inevitable." 

She  was  not  superstitious;  but  his  words 
were  full  of  passion,  and  so  deep  with  con- 
viction that  they  overawed  her,  like  the 
utterances  of  an  oracle  unfolding  unalterable 
destiny.  They  had  reached  an  open  space 
where  sticks  of  felled  timber  were  lying  on 
the  ground.  She  tried  to  withdraw  her 
hand,   but  he  held  it  fast. 

"  I  must  go.  I  must  go  at  once.  I  can- 
not stay,"  she  implored. 

"  For  one  moment  you  must  listen  to  me, 
Charity  —  " 

"  I  cannot  listen.  I  am  not  free  to 
listen." 

In  her  anxiety  and  helplessness  the  words 
sounded  like  a  lament. 

"I  cannot  help  it,"  he  whispered.  "No 
power  on  earth  shall  prevent  my  saying  I 
love   you.     From  the  first  moment   I  was 


126  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

certain  of  your  sympathy.  I  could  see  in 
every  movement  the  quickness  of  your  sen- 
sibilities. And  the  world  is  so  dead  and 
dull.  They  had  been  making  me  read,  but 
what  did  they  care  for  my  verses.?  What 
does  anybody  care.?  I  had  ceased  to  care 
myself.  But  you  quickened  me  into  new 
hope  —  new  aspiration.  Every  syllable  you 
spoke  was  like  the  touch  of  a  human  hand." 

He  was  so  moved  at  this  his  own  picture 
of  sympathy  that  his  voice  faltered,  and 
he  stopped. 

Each  word  went  red-hot  to  the  girl's 
heart.  It  had  come,  the  thing  she  thought 
impossible,  —  the  love  they  spoke  of  as  irre- 
sistible, which  she  had  never  felt.  Every 
element  that  in  imagination  went  to  the 
making  of  an  ideal  passion  was  present. 
He  was  exceptional.  He  had  heart,  intel- 
lect, soul.  And  he  had  need  of  her,  — deep 
spiritual  need. 

A  flame  of  sudden  joy  leapt  up  within  her 
bosom.  Then  again  she  was  afraid,  and 
her  reply  was  angry  in  self-defence,  — 

"I  —  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  speak  like 


IN   THE   WOOD.  127 

this,  Mr.  Prentice.  You  —  you  hurt  me.  I 
have  liked,  yes,  really  liked  talking  to  you 
—  and  in  future  I  —  you  have  made  it 
impossible  —  " 

"  I  know.  That  is  the  tale  they  always 
teach,"  he  cried  bitterly.  "If  your  heart 
has  an  impulse,  hide  it.  If  it  cherish  an 
emotion,  crush  it.  They  are  afraid  of  their 
lives  to  live,  and  that  is  the  gospel  in  which 
they  bring  you  up.  Because  I  love  you, 
you  must  refuse  even  to  speak  to  me,  —  even 
though  you  be  necessary  to  me.  And  that 
is  the  wisdom  of  the  world." 

As  he  finished,  his  voice  sank  into  its 
habitual  melancholy,  and  he  released  her 
hand.  Her  brain  was  whirling  in  its  effort 
to  seize  his  deepest  meaning.  For  he 
seemed  to  say  so  much  whilst  she  could 
grasp  so  little.  And  all  that  stood  clear 
out  of  the  chaos  was  himself,  a  lonely  figure 
with  the  world  arrayed  against  him,  crav- 
ing for  sympathy  and  help. 

"  I  should  have  to  think  whether  it  was 
right,"  she  said  very  softly,  as  if  speaking 
to  herself. 


128  CHARITY    CHANCE. 

His  manner  changed.  He  spoke  with  a 
subdued  tenderness,  a  really  touching  self- 
restraint,  — 

"Yes.  I  recognise  that  as  an  inevitable 
necessity  of  your  nature.  To  me,  every- 
thing that  is  real  is  right." 

"  I  meant  really  right.  Not  what  people 
think,"  she  hastily  explained. 

Something  rustled  past  them  amongst  the 
ferns  and  undergrowth,  and  she  involun- 
tarily started  aside. 

"It  was  nothing,"  he  assured  her.  "I 
fancy  a  rabbit  flitted  across  by  the  felled 
tree." 

"I  must  go." 

"One  moment.  Charity." 

But  the  movement  had  disturbed  her,  and 
regardless  of  his  entreaty  she  walked 
quickly  on. 

In  places  the  rough  pathway  was  too  nar- 
row for  two  to  pass,  and  he  followed  until 
they  came  to  the  open  ride  between  the 
larches.  By  this  time  it  was  nearly  dark. 
She  stopped  abruptly  and  held  out  her 
hand. 


IN   THE   WOOD.  129 

"Good-bye,  Mr.  Prentice." 

"  I  have  only  one  thing  to  ask, "  he  pleaded 
wildly.  "  My  love  has  startled  you.  How 
could  I  help  it.?  You  have  come  into  my 
life.  You  have  become  part  of  me.  Could 
I  stifle  a  generous  passion  at  its  birth,  and 
bury  it  out  of  sight  like  a  crime .-^  Believe 
me,  life  knows  too  little  love  to  lightly  cast 
it  aside.  I  cannot  do  so.  You  cannot. 
And  you  tell  me  the  hours  when  we  have 
met  were  precious  to  you.  Come  once 
more  to-mom^ow.  Come  with  this  knowl- 
edge in  your  heart  and  talk  to  me  again. 
That  is  all  I  ask.     Just  once." 

She  did  not  promise  him.  Before  she 
could  make  up  her  mind,  a  tall  figure  came 
into  the  ride,  striding  rapidly  towards  them. 
It  was  already  quite  dark. 

"Some  one  is  here,"  she  whispered  in 
alarm.      "Good-night." 

"  Morning,  noon,  or  evening,  I  shall  wait 
until  you  come." 

And  so  they  parted.  He  disappeared 
amongst  the  larches,  and  she  turned  quietly 
towards  the  house. 

9 


I30  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

By  the  wicket-gatc  she  was  overtaken  by 
Theodosia. 

"Why,  Charity,  is  that  you?"  cried  she, 
in  great  surprise.  "  I  went  up  to  look  for 
foxgloves,  and  found  a  few.  Come  along, 
you  shall  shield  me  from  a  row.  Look!" 
and  she  held  out  the  bunch  of  flowers  in  the 
dusk. 

They  hurried  to  the  house  in  silence. 
For  Charity's  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of 
her  mouth,  and  her  brain  kept  throbbing 
with  the  thought.  It  has  come  —  it  has 
come ! 


CHAPTER   X. 


HONITON    LACE. 


"To  me  the  thing  that  is  real  is  right." 
How  his  phrases  haunted  her,  and  this 
more  than  any.  She  pondered  over  it,  per- 
plexed. Ever  and  again  it  arose  before  her 
mind,  boldly  claiming  acceptance  as  a  uni- 
versal truth.  The  envy  of  those  Babble- 
mouth  people  was  real  enough,  but  reality 
did  not  make  it  right.  Within  the  converse, 
rather.  Truth  lay  cradled.  "  The  thing 
that  is  unreal  is  wrong."  Unconsciously 
she  substituted  this  proposition,  and  cher- 
ished the  changeling  unawares.  "What 
depth  of  insight  he  has!"  she  gasped,  and 
almost  worshipped  him  for  the  thing  he  had 
not  said. 

She  did  not  go  to  meet  Prentice  the  next 
day.     She  trembled  at  the   thought.     She 


132  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

had  promised  to  marry  Graliam.  Her  path 
was  plain  before  her,  and  she  must  keep 
to  it. 

In  the  isolation  of  her  growing  up,  as  the 
fairest  flower  in  Miss  Graham's  garden,  she 
had  seen  nothing  of  the  outside  world. 
Lessons  she  had  learned  in  the  Babble- 
mouth  High  School,  an  institution  of  consid- 
erable local  repute,  but  her  real  education 
went  forward  at  home.  There  she  drank 
deep  in  poetry,  the  wine  of  the  little  crip- 
ple's life,  until  her  whole  soul  throbbed  and 
glowed  with  high  ideals.  Now  amongst 
these  a  deadly  strife  had  arisen. 

She  had  promised  to  marry  Graham. 
Constancy  was  a  virtue  beyond  compare, 
and  she  must  keep  her  word.  But  how 
could  she  longer  acquiesce  in  his  love,  and 
act  the  lie  her  lips  would  never  deign  to 
utter } 

In  her  distress  and  misery  she  would 
creep  away  to  her  room  over  the  porch,  or 
to  some  odd  corner  of  the  garden,  to  be  with 
her  own  thoughts  unseen.  For  she  could 
not  hide  her  agitation.     And  she  dared  not 


HONITON   LACE.  133 

tell  it  to  any  one.  In  solitude  it  was  a  relief 
to  speak  her  heart  aloud;  and  she  poured 
out  her  secret  passion  to  the  tall  sun- 
flowers beside  the  garden  w^all. 

"  It  has  come.  I  love  him  !  "  she  cried. 
"I  love  him  with  all  my  heart."  Then  she 
stood  silent,  startled  at  the  vehemence  of 
her  own  utterances. 

She  must  never  speak  to  him  again :  that 
was  the  only  way.  But  this  resolution 
brought  a  burden  of  despair,  beneath  which 
her  spirit  was  well-nigh  broken. 

So  the  days  passed  on.  A  doubt  whether 
Theodosia  had  seen  them  together  that 
night,  which  at  first  troubled  her,  was  dis- 
missed. She  had  not  spoken  of  it.  But  a 
rumour  of  impending  dissolution  had  given 
a  keener  interest  to  the  candidature  of  Mr. 
Poltimore-Briggs,  and  the  Babblemouth 
people  could  talk  of  nothing  else.  There 
were  meetings  all  over  the  country.  To- 
morrow there  was  to  be  a  mass  meeting  on 
the  quay.  And  Graham  had  thrown  him- 
self into  the  contest  heart  and  soul, — not 
from    any   deep    conviction,    but    with   the 


134  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

careless  gaiety  of  the  sportsman.  There- 
fore, of  him,  for  the  time,  she  saw  but 
little.  Miss  Graham,  noticing  the  girl's  un- 
happiness,  but  mistaking  its  cause,  became 
more  than  ever  tender  and  sympathetic. 

"Lay  aside  the  book,  and  talk  to  me," 
she  said  softly  one  evening,  and  gently 
drew  the  girl  down  to  kiss  her  bright  hair. 
"  You  must  not  mind,  dear,  if  he  seems  to 
neglect  you,  just  for  a  while.  There  is 
nowhere  a  more  loyal  heart  than  Graham. 
Why,  I  would  not  care  for  him  one  straw, 
if  he  were  not  eager  for  his  father  to  win. 
He  would  not  be  worth  his  salt.  And  no 
one  could  love  you  better,  Charity  dear,  in 
all  the  world." 

The  little  lady  stopped.  There  were 
tears  in  her  eyes,  but  they  were  tears  of 
happiness.  For  the  girl's  melancholy  was 
a  source  of  joy,  since  it  proved  the  depth  of 
her  affection. 

"I  know  that  Graham  loves  me,"  replied 
Charity  in  a  low  voice. 

"He  worships  you,"  cried  Miss  Graham, 
her  face  bright  with  enthusiasm.       "  Wait 


HONITON   LACE.  135 

one  moment,  child.  I  will  be  back.  No, 
do  not  move.      I  can  go  alone." 

She  waved  away  the  proffered  assistance, 
and  with  only  her  ebony  stick,  toiled 
upstairs.  She  was  gone  some  time.  Charity 
could  hear  her  mysteriously  moving  over- 
head, and  that  she  dragged  a  box  upon  the 
floor.  At  last  she  returned,  bringing  with 
great  care  a  small  flat  parcel  wrapped  in 
blue  paper. 

Fatigued  and  out  of  breath,  without  a 
word  she  took  her  seat.  Overcome  with 
emotion,  for  a  while  she  held  the  precious 
burden  on  her  lap.  Then  with  a  quick  ges- 
ture, beckoned  Charity  to  unfasten  the 
string.  The  knot,  tied  long  ago,  was  very 
firm,  and  the  girl  knelt  down  to  pick  it  out. 

With  trembling  hands,  herself,  she  opened 
the  paper,  and  drew  forth  a  wealth  of  Hon- 
iton  lace,  and  amongst  it  a  bridal  veil. 

"  Stay,  child,  stay ! "  she  interposed 
quickly,  for  Charity  was  about  to  rise. 

She  rapidly  unfolded  the  veil,  yellow  with 
age  and  very  beautiful,  and  cast  it  over  the 
girl's  head. 


136  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"There,  Charity,"  she  began  in  a  broken 
voice.  "  My  mother  wore  it  at  the  altar,  and 
so  shall  you.  It  was  made  for  her.  And 
the  flounce  too.  For  more  than  a  score  of 
years  it  has  not  seen  the  light.  Poor  Irene 
put  it  on  once,  and  laughed  to  look  at  her- 
self. She  should  have  worn  it,  but  that  was 
not  to  be.  Stand  over  there,  dear,  and  let 
me  look  at  it  again." 

The  girl  hesitated,  then  obeyed.  In  her 
effort  to  control  her  feelings,  she  held  her 
head  erect,  as  if  in  pride. 

"Yes,  yes.  You  shall  wear  it,"  cried 
the  little  cripple,  nodding  approval.  She 
paused,  and  then  went  on  with  growing  ex- 
citement :  "  Charity !  You  will  be  a  bride 
for  a  king.  And  you  shall  keep  it,  dear,  as 
I  have  done,  until  some  day  you  put  it  on  a 
child  of  your  own.  For  you  are  mine,  dear 
—  and  Graham ' s  —  and  there  is  no  one  else. 
It  shall  be  an  heirloom  for  ever  to  the  first 
daughter  who  marries.  No.  That  will  be 
always  a  fresh  name.  For  the  bride  of  the 
eldest  son." 

Suddenly  she  stopped. 


HONITON   LACE.  137 

"Come  here,  child!  Quick!  Let  me 
take  it  off." 

Her  manner  had  changed,  and  she  spoke 
now  in  a  frightened  whisper. 

"They  used  to  call  it  unlucky  to  try  on  a 
bride's  things.  They  said  so  when  Irene 
put  it  on.  And  she,  poor  girl  —  Quick, 
kneel  down  again  !  " 

She  quickly  removed,  and  was  tenderly 
refolding  the  precious  relic  to  put  it  by, 
when  her  eye  caught  sight  of  the  misery 
upon  the  girl's  face. 

"Of  course  there  is  nothing  in  that,"  she 
said  soothingly.  "  How  foolish  of  me  to 
have  said  it,  dear!  " 

Then  the  little  lady  laughed  uneasily, 
and  again  drew  the  girl  towards  her  to  be 
kissed. 

"There.  Quick,  pick  me  up  the  string," 
she  said. 

But  both  the  exultation  and  the  passing 
presentiment  had  pressed  with  crushing 
weight  upon  Charity's  spirit.  The  one 
proved  the  marriage,  and  the  other  the 
unhappiness   so    inevitable.       To   hide  her 


138  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

emotion  she  turned  away  and  crossed  the 
room  to  the  piano.  She  stood,  turning 
over  the  leaves  of  a  volume  of  Beethoven's 
sonatas,  but  did  not  touch  the  keys. 

There  followed  a  brief  moment  of  silence 
and  disquietude. 

How  sensitive  she  is !  thought  the  little 
cripple,  and  loved  her  the  more  for  it. 
Then  out  of  kindness  she  began  to  prattle 
quite  lightly  upon  an  unimportant  matter. 

"Your  friend  the  poet,  Charity,  seems  to 
have  betaken  himself  to  the  woods.  He  is 
there  all  the  day  through,  so  John  Sprake 
tells  me,  and  sometimes  after  dark.  John 
was  greatly  concerned  as  to  what  he  could 
want  there,  and  thought  he  could  never  be 
quite  right.  But  I  told  him  to  leave  the 
poor  man  in  peace.  I  suppose  it  is  a  sort 
of  browsing  on  Parnassus.  I  would  not  rob 
a  poor  soul  of  an  inspiration  for  the  world. 
Play  something,  dear." 

The  girl  gladly  turned  to  the  piano  for 
relief,  and  for  that  evening  there  was  no 
further  conversation.  She  placed  the  book 
upon   the   music-rack,  and  began  to  play. 


HONITON   LACE.  139 

But  through  the  solemn  adagio  and  the 
fiercer  passion  of  the  presto  movement,  a 
vision  of  Alfred  Prentice,  desolate  and 
alone,  wandering  in  the  gloom  of  a  hopeless 
love,  haunted  her  imagination.  He  had 
implored  her  to  see  him  again.  Since  he 
loved  her  so  deeply,  did  she  not  owe  him 
as  much  as  this  ?  to  own  the  happiness  of 
his  love,  and  then  to  bravely  bow  to  the 
inevitable,  and  say  farewell.  Only  of  him 
she  thought  now;  not  of  herself.  It  was 
the  essential  quality  of  all  her  dreams  that 
they  were  noble.  They  pictured  everybody 
heroic,  never  yielding  to  selfishness  or  fear. 
Except  the  Babblemouth  people,  whom, 
when  they  were  not  present,  she  dismissed 
from  her  mind.  It  was  cruel  to  be  so 
abrupt.  If  not  to-morrow,  when  the  polit- 
ical meeting  might  interfere,  then  on  the 
day  following,  she  must  meet  him  once 
more,  and  make  an  end  of  it. 


CHAPTER   XL 


THE    MEETING. 


Babblemouth  was  astir!  True,  it  was 
a  little  place,  but,  once  aroused,  it  displayed 
that  phenomenal  activity  which  is  the 
brightest  attribute  of  a  little  body.  Vil- 
lagers flocked  in  from  all  around,  and  filled 
the  town  to  overflowing.  A  brass  band 
paraded  the  streets,  and  other  attractions 
were  manifold.  There  was  to  be  an  orator 
from  a  distance,  a  display  of  fireworks,  and 
it  was  rumoured  that  a  tight-rope  dancer 
would  walk  from  cliff  to  cliff  upon  a  slack 
wire.  Many  understood  that  Mr.  Poltimore- 
Briggs  hmself  would  perform  this  feat,  but 
the  event  proved  this  a  mere  Radical 
invention. 

15elow  Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs's  mansion, 
and  running  parallel  with  the  harbour,  was 
a  row  of  ancient  houses,  quaint  and  irregu- 


THE   MEETING.  141 

lar.  Between  them  and  the  quay  lay  an 
open  space,  where  fishing-boats  put  up  their 
spoil  to  auction,  and  country-folk  pitched 
their  wares  on  market  day.  Upon  this 
forum  a  wooden  platform  had  been  raised 
with  seats  to  accommodate  a  hundred  sup- 
porters. There  Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs  was 
to  address  the  electorate. 

It  was  evening.  The  proceedings  had 
not  yet  commenced,  but  the  place  was 
already  crowded  when  Charity  reached  the 
corner  of  this  little  square.  She  was  later 
than  she  intended.  Above  the  heads  of  the 
people  she  could  distinguish  Mrs.  Mortimer 
and  Theodosia,  sitting  in  state  amidst  the 
dite  of  Babblemouth  society.  For  her, 
also,  was  reserved  a  seat  upon  the  platform, 
but  how  to  get  to  it  was  more  than  she 
could  tell.  For  the  crowd,  although  cer- 
tainly good-natured,  was  in  high  spirits  and 
jocular  with  a  coarseness  from  which  she 
shrank. 

Close  beside  her  a  group  of  electors 
loudly  discussed  the  merits  of  Mr.  Polti- 
more-Briggs.     Charity  had  so  long  regarded 


142  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

him  with  awe,  that  it  startled  her  to  hear 
that  great  name  thrown  to  the  four  winds 
upon  the  breath  of  disparagement. 

"Poltimore-Briggs !  Who's  Poltimore- 
Briggs.''"  cried  an  elderly  sharp -featured 
little  man,  in  a  shrill  voice,  looking  around 
defiantly.  "A  fine  fellow  to  put  up  for 
Parliament  indeed.  Put  up  for  sale,  you  'd 
buy  him  dear  at  his  own  valuation.  Why,  I 
remember  when  he  was  nobody,  I  was  in 
his  father's  ofiice  once  —  but  that  's  out  o' 
memory.  We  can't  call  that  to  mind  now. 
He  was  n't  so  big  then.  I  say,  that 's  his 
house  —  that's  his  horses,  walking  up  and 
down  for  show  there  in  front,  — that  's  his 
yacht  out  there  covered  with  flags.  Where 
did  he  get  it }  That 's  what  I  want  to  know. 
Why,  out  o'  Lord  Babblemouth's  estate. 
Eh.-*  something  clinging  to  the  hand  every- 
thing that 's  done.  I  tell  'ee  what  't  is,  he 
couldn't  ha'  got  it  if  he  hadn't  robbed 
somebody." 

There  was  a  general  guffaw,  for  the  little 
man  winked  at  every  other  word  and  talked 
like  an  oracle. 


THE   MEETING.  143 

Charity  stood  perplexed,  wondering  if  it 
were  possible  to  go  on. 

"Oh,  come,  come!"  drawled  a  country- 
man, with  a  face  round  and  red  as  a  Dutch 
cheese;  "we  do  know  where  the  man  picked 
up  his  money.  His  uncle  Briggs  died  an' 
lef  it  to  un.  I  knew  his  uncle  Briggs 
well,  afore  he  died.  Had  a  shop  'pon  Fins- 
bury  Pavement,  an'  died  sudden.  Zold  me 
hams  for  years.  Hunderds  o'  hams.  Capi- 
cal  hams,  all  sweet  pickle.  Ah!  zixpence 
a  poun'  them  times  an'  did  well.  Ha! 
Ha!  "  He  laughed  in  happy  recollection  of 
those  hams;  and  then  added  with  deep 
earnestness,  "But  you  can't  do  nothen  out 
o'  pig-butcheren  nowadays." 

"  His  uncle  Briggs  .-•  "  returned  the  other, 
fiercely,  "under  thirty  thousand  pounds,  for 
I  saw  the  will  in  the  Illustrated.  And  Pol- 
timore  bought  land  wi'  it,  an'  farmed  it 
foolish  ever  since.  And  the  land  gone  down 
half  since  then.  And  who  knows  who  's  got 
the  deeds,  eh  ?  Aha  I  oftentimes  a  man 
hasn't  got  all  that  goes  in  his  name.  No; 
what  he  got  from  his  uncle  Briggs  couldn't 


144  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

do  it.  He  stole  it.  That  's  what  he  did. 
He  stole  it." 

"I  stigmatise  that  as  a  lie.  A  paltry- 
lie,  imported  for  base  party  purposes. 
And  any  one  who  brings  that  tale  here 
will  very  soon  find  himself  in  the  wrong 
box.  He  '11  soon  learn  the  taste  of  Babble- 
mouth  harbour." 

Thus  spoke  the  Babblemouth  draper  and 
undertaker,  a  tradesman  of  the  first  magni- 
tude, whose  fine  feeling  and  tact  in  seasons 
of  bereavement  had  earned  him  the  respect 
of  all.  Many  deceased  members  of  the 
Poltimore  family  had  he  buried,  only  to 
gain  thereby  a  deeper  interest  in  the  liv- 
ing. In  virtuous  indignation  he  strode  two 
steps  towards  the  little  man,  and  looked 
fierce  enough  to  kill  him  first  and  bury  him 
afterwards.  The  little  man  fell  back  and 
butted  against  Charity.  The  undertaker 
bowed  with  reverence  and  apologised. 

At  this  moment,  by  good  fortune,  the  air 
was  rent  with  cheers. 

"Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs  —  that  is  Mr. 
Poltimore-Briggs ! " 


THE   MEETING.  145 

Every  eye  turned  towards  the  platform. 
The  landau  traversed  the  fifty  yards  between 
Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs's  house  and  the 
wooden  island  in  the  sea  of  heads,  and 
safely  deposited  its  precious  freight.  The 
applause  increased  as  Mr.  Poltimore- 
Briggs,  followed  by  the  orator,  ascended  the 
steps.  Yet  there  was  opposition  too,  — 
hooting  and  hissing,  which  lasted  longer 
than  the  cheers.  The  little  man  plucked 
up  and  cried,  — 

"  Booh ! " 

To  attempt  to  cross  the  square  was  use- 
less, and  Charity  turned  to  go  back.  She 
did  not  care  about  politics.  Hooting  and 
cheers  alike  disturbed  her,  and  her  only 
desire  was  to  get  away.  Around  by-streets, 
now  all  deserted,  she  could  reach  Babble- 
mouth  House,  and  there  await  the  return  of 
the  politicians  and  the  fireworks.  Speeches 
were  nothing  but  weariness  to  her. 

Amongst  the  old  houses  was  one  much 
smaller  than  the  rest,  with  a  bay  window 
almost  as  big  as  itself.  As  Charity  passed, 
the  front  door  quickly  opened.     Some  one 


146  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

spoke  to  her,  and  looking  round  she  saw 
Alfred  Prentice. 

"Are  you  going  home,  Miss  Chance.-* 
Will  you  come  into  my  room  ?  There  is 
an  excellent  view  of  the  people."  His 
manner  was  distantly  respectful,  then  sud- 
denly dropped  into  tenderness.  "Yes. 
Come,  please,  and  talk  to  me  just  this 
once." 

So  this  last  meeting  to  which  her  mind 
was  made  up,  had  befallen  by  accident  after 
all.  Ought  she  to  accept  this  invitation, 
so  contrary  to  the  code  of  Babblemouth  .■* 
Yet  why  not?  He  too  recognised  the 
inevitable  when  pleading  for  just  this  once. 
It  was  only  natural  to  wish  to  watch  the 
crowd  from  some  place  of  safety,  and  better 
far  than  going  into  the  wood  by  design. 
Her  thanks  were  scarcely  audible.  At  once 
she  passed  through  the  open  door,  and  fol- 
lowed him  up  the  stairs. 

The  room  shocked  her  sensibilities  —  it 
was  so  small  and  mean.  The  corners  were 
not  square.  The  ceiling  was  so  low  that  a 
taller  tenant  mio-ht  have  touched  it  with 


THE   MEETING.  147 

his  hand.  It  had  not  the  dignity  of  a 
garret,  for  tlie  bay-window  was  pretentious 
and  the  paltry  furniture  and  tawdry  German 
prints  upon  the  wall  marked  it  the  lodging- 
keeper's  own.  Theodosia  was  right:  he 
must  be  miserably  poor.  But  hov/  con- 
temptible to  tattle  of  it !  And  he  too  proud 
to  accept  their  patronising  hospitality. 
She  loved  him  for  that.  She  could  have 
been  proud  herself. 

She  stood  in  the  window,  which  came 
almost  to  the  floor.  The  backs  of  the  pop- 
ulace were  towards  her,  but  she  was  in  full 
view  of  the  platform.  A  stranger  was  now 
speaking.  He  majestically  pointed  to  Mr. 
Poltimore-Briggs,  and  all  the  ladies  clapped 
their  hands. 

"A  strange  ambition!"  sighed  Alfred 
Prentice,  with  the  condescension  of  a 
lesser  God  looking  down  upon  mortals,  as 
he  handed  her  a  chair. 

The  little  man  had  shouted  an  interrup- 
tion, and  was  being  hustled  in  the  street 
below. 

"They  make  it  all  personal.     They  mis- 


148  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

represent  so  unjustly,  when  they  only  dis- 
agree," cried  the  girl,  impatiently.  She 
recollected  and  resented  the  absurd  attack 
upon  the  integrity  of  Poltimore-Briggs.  To 
know  a  person  was,  with  her,  to  believe  in 
him;  and  dislike  could  not  shake  that 
confidence. 

Alfred  Prentice  looked  at  her  intently. 
She  was  excited,  and  her  face  glowed  with 
animation  at  the  mere  thought  of  injustice. 

"  I  have  missed  you  so  much  during  these 
last  miserable  days,"  he  said  slowly.  "I 
have  neither  read  nor  worked.  I  could  not 
concentrate  my  mind  upon  anything  because 
of  a  haunting  fear  that  you  despised  me." 

"  Despised  you !  That  was  impossible. 
How  could  you  think  so } "  she  cried,  almost 
with  resentment,  for  this  pained  her. 

*'  You  did  not  come  into  the  wood.  The 
interviews  that  were  so  precious,  so  rich  in 
profit  to  me,  were  at  an  end.  I  had  driven 
you  from  your  retreat ;  perhaps  deprived  you 
of  your  greatest  solace.  And  that  reflec- 
tion was  more  bitter  to  me  than  my  own 
despair. " 


THE   MEETING.  149 

He  nervously  thrust  his  fingers  through 
his  long  black  hair.  He  was  so  emotional 
that  he  quivered  with  excitement  at  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice.  Nothing  could  be 
more  despairing  than  his  utterance  of  the 
word  "  despair. " 

The  loud  aggression  of  the  orator  from  a 
distance,  driving  home  his  points  with  the 
persuasiveness  of  a  sledge-hammer,  came 
through  the  open  window,  mingled  with  the 
laughter  of  the  crowd.  Every  word  was 
clear,  but  she  did  not  hear  what  he  was 
saying.  She  instinctively  pushed  back  her 
chair.  The  people  in  the  street  were  so 
close,  they  would  witness  her  agitation  and 
read  her  heart. 

"  I  could  see  no  good  in  coming  after 
what  you  said.  It  could  never  be  unsaid, 
or  —  or  —  forgotten,"  she  told  him  sadly. 

"No  good!"  he  echoed.  "When  you 
were  an  inspiration  to  me.  When  every 
word  was  like  the  breath  of  spring,  and  the 
freshness  of  your  belief  in  life  gave  me  new 
hope,  new  faith,  so  that  you  became  a 
necessity.     No  good ! " 


150  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"I  meant  that^ — that  nothing  but  unhap- 
piness  could  result  from  our  meeting  each 
other.  I  felt  it  was  not  —  not  honourable. 
Yet  I  should  have  come  once  more  if  I  had 
not  seen  you  to-day." 

Her  voice  sank.  It  sounded  pitiful,  this 
confession  of  weakness  wrung  from  her  in  a 
moment  of  passion.  It  was  a  lament  over  a 
broken  ideal. 

He  strode  two  steps  across  the  little 
room,  and  threw  himself  upon  his  knees 
beside  her  chair.  His  arms  were  around 
her;  his  face  was  close  to  hers. 

"Yes,"  he  whispered  fiercely.  "You 
would  have  come  because  you  love  me.  I 
know  you  love  me;  you  cannot  deny  it,  if 
you  would.  I  can  see  it  —  I  can  hear  it  in 
your  voice,  and  feel  it  in  your  presence  here. 
But  say  it.     Tell  me  the  truth." 

She  could  make  no  answer.  Her  tongue 
dared  neither  utter  the  secret  of  her  heart, 
nor  hide  it  in  a  lie.  She  made  an  effort  to 
be  free,  but  he  held  her  fast. 

"Say  it,"  he  insisted,  and  she  could  feel 
his    breath    upon    her    cheek.       "A    love 


THE   MEETING.  151 

unspoken  is  a  song  unsung  —  a  jewel  hidden 
from  the  light  —  a  gift  of  heaven  rejected. 
Tell  me  you  love  me. " 

His  words  were  impetuous  and  irre- 
sistible. In  a  voice  so  low  it  scarcely 
seemed  her  own,   she  murmured,  — 

"  I  love  you. " 

For  a  moment  she  abandoned  herself  to 
drift  upon  the  full  flood  of  acquiescence. 
She  was  carried,  she  knew  not  where,  —  far 
from  the  squalid  little  room  to  an  island  of 
enchantment  and  forgetfulness.  The  out- 
bursts of  the  people  in  the  street  sounded 
far  away,  like  the  beating  of  summer  break- 
ers against  distant  rocks.  One  moment  of 
joy  and  exultation,  and  she  awoke  with  his 
kisses  burning  on  her  lips. 

She  tore  herself  away  from  him,  and 
again  stood  up  in  the  window.  She  was  in 
a  tumult  of  resentment,  and  crimson  with 
shame. 

"I  am  going  now,"  she  cried  angrily,  "I 
shall  go  straight  home.  I  care  nothing 
about  the  meeting.  It  is  horrible  to  me, 
and  I  wish  I  had  not  come.      Look  !  Look ! 


152  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

What  are  they  doing  there?  They  are 
fighting.  Where  are  they  going  to  carry 
the  man  ? " 

She  pointed  towards  the  quay-side. 

The  stranger  whose  contemptible  party 
spirit  had  been  displayed  in  those  absurd 
comments  upon  the  financial  condition  of 
Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs,  by  impertinent  in- 
terruptions brought  upon  himself  the  indig- 
nation of  surrounding  electors.  "  Duck 
him  !  Duck  him  !  "  yelled  the  crowd.  He 
was  seized  on,  and  civil  war  raged  around 
his  luckless  body. 

The  girl  looked  on  with  horror,  but  Alfred 
Prentice  took  little  heed.  To  him  it  was 
only  an  argument  to  defeat  her  intention. 
"You  mustn't  go  yet,"  he  said  eagerly. 
"It  is  not  safe." 

"  I  cannot  stay.  I  ought  not  to  have 
come.  But  I  wanted  —  I  don't  know  what 
it  was  —  I  wanted  to  say  something  —  but 
not  that.  I  wanted  to  thank  you  —  to  show 
that  —  " 

Her  anger  had  melted  away,  and  in  the 
misery  of  hopelessness  she  burst  into  tears. 


THE   MEETING.  153 

"Charity,"  he  begged  quite  tenderly, 
"you  have  said  you  love  me.  Come  away 
with  me.  To-night  it  is  too  late.  We 
should  get  no  carriage  with  all  this  foolery 
going  on.      But  to-morrow  —  or  next  day." 

She  stared  at  him  with  her  great  aston- 
ished eyes. 

"  Do  you  mean  run  away .''  " 

The  frank  wonder  of  the  question  made 
him  hesitate. 

"  I  mean  take  our  destinies  in  our  own 
hands,  and  live  out  our  lives  unfettered  by 
other  people." 

"Whatever  I  do  shall  be  avowed  and 
open,"  she  replied  proudly.      "Good-bye." 

"  It  would  be  useless  to  tell.  I  am  poor. 
They  would  not  let  you  —  " 

"That  would  be  nothing  to  me.  Good- 
bye." 

He  did  not  take  her  proffered  hand,  and 
she  turned  hastily  and  went  out  of  the 
door.  He  called  after  her  by  name. 
"Charity.  One  moment,  Charity."  But 
without  a  word  she  passed  down  the  stairs 
and  into  the  street.      Fearlessly  she  pushed 


154  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

her  way  amongst  the  excited  jDeoplc  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  crowd;  but  when  she  came 
upon  the  quiet  road,  she  ran.  Her  great 
longing  was  to  reach  unheeded  the  solitude 
of  her  own  room,  and  think. 

But  Miss  Graham's  quick  ear  heard  her 
crossing  the  hall. 

"  What,  Charity,  back  so  soon !  Come 
here,  child." 

"  I  was  late,  and  the  place  was  full. 
There  was  shouting  and  fighting.  It  was 
horrid,  and  I  hated  it." 

"Of  course  you  did,"  purred  the  little 
lady.  "  Why,  you  looked  frightened  into  a 
fever.     Graham  ought  to  have  known." 


CHAPTER    XII. 


DISCLOSURES. 


What  was  she  to  do  ?  Days  passed ;  and 
this  question,  always  present  in  Charity's 
mind,  remained  unanswered.  She  became 
silent  and  distraught.  The  affection  of 
Miss  Graham,  expressed  in  a  thousand  deli- 
cate touches,  to  her  difficulty  heaped  re- 
morse. The  girl  could  not  steel  her  heart 
to  hurt  that  tender  friend.  Thus  life  be- 
came a  constant  lie,  and  unbearable. 

Amongst  the  summer  hospitalities  at 
Babblecombe  House  was  one  in  which  the 
little  lady  took  peculiar  delight.  Once  a 
year  long  deal  tables  were  ranged  upon  the 
lawn,  an  urn  of  huge  dimensions  was  hired 
from  the  town,  and  the  workhouse  girls 
were  regaled  with  unlimited  tea  and  buns. 

It  was  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  Miss 
Graham  had  been  wheeled  out  of  doors  to 


156  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

await  the  arrival  of  lier  little  guests.  She 
loved  to  watch  them  coming  along  the  road. 
To  look  at  these  hapless  children  quickened 
her  sentiment  and  touched  her  heart. 

"They  are  coming,  Charity,"  she  cried 
with  enthusiasm.  "Poor  little  things! 
How  pretty  they  look  in  their  blue  cotton 
frocks. " 

The  girl  watched  the  procession  marching 
two  and  two  along  the  road.  She  was  un- 
happy, and  the  sight  to  her  seemed  infinitely 
sad. 

"I  resent  the  blue  frocks,"  she  said 
warmly.  "Why  should  they  be  marked  for 
workhouse  brats  .-*  " 

The  phrase  sounded  unkind.  "Don't, 
dear,  don't !  "  expostulated  the  little  cripple, 
with  a  pained  look.  But  as  the  children 
filed  into  the  garden,  her  face  beamed  again, 
and  she  added :  "  How  clean  and  well  they 
look!  Set  them  to  play  at  once,  Charity. 
The  Mortimers  will  be  here  in  a  moment." 

Scarcely  were  the  words  uttered  when  the 
expected  visitors  came  hurrying  into  the 
garden. 


DISCLOSURES.  157 

"So  sorry  to  be  late,"  gushed  Mrs.  Mor- 
timer, rushing  up  to  the  chair,  and  kissing 
Miss  Graham  upon  both  cheeks.  "  How 
are  you,  dear  Miss  Graham?  It  is  so  sweet 
of  you.  I  have  brought  all  the  dear  girls, 
you  see,  —  to  make  themselves  useful. 
Come,  girls,   come." 

Her  eye  glanced  from  Theodosia  to 
Amelia  and  Amy,  and  thence  to  the  other 
six.  The  dear  girls  solemnly  approached 
in  single  file,  saluted  Miss  Graham  accord- 
ing to  priority  of  birth,  and  dispersed. 
Then  Theodosia  and  her  mother  encamped 
upon  stools,  one  on  each  side  of  the  Bath- 
chair. 

The  sun  shone  gloriously.  Swallows 
darted  to  and  fro.  The  plaintive  note  of 
the  greenfinch,  like  a  sweet  wail  of  recol- 
lected sorrow,  came  from  the  wood. 

The  workhouse  children  were  ranged  in 
two  rows,  playing  one  of  those  singing 
games,  —  the  heritage  for  ever  of  the  humble 
who  have  no  toys. 

"  We  ^ve  a-come  to  see  Jinny  Jo>tes,  Jinny  Jones,  Jinny  Jofies^ 
We  ^ve  a-come  to  see  Jinny  Jones.     How  is  she  now  ?  " 


158  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

Backwards  and  forwards  they  tripped  to 
the  rhythm  of  the  song.  The  little  crip- 
ple's face  glowed  with  pleasure  as  she 
nodded  her  head  to  the  time.  In  heart  she 
was  as  young  as  they,  and  enjoyed  the  game 
as  much,  —  always  at  second  hand.  Their 
little  twinkling  skirts  awakened  a  joy  more 
tender  than  the  early  daffodils,  or  the  blue- 
bells in  the  wood.  Something  came  over  her. 
She  scarcely  knew  whether  to  laugh  or  cry. 

" Jimiy  Jones  is  a-dying,  a-dying,  a-dying, 

Jinny  Jones  is  a-dying.      You  can't  see  her  7iow." 

Every  one  else  being  happy  and  busily 
engaged,  Mrs.  Mortimer  found  the  moment 
propitious  to  push  forward  her  sharp  face 
with  the  hook-nose  she  loved  to  put  into 
everything. 

"I  wanted  to  say  something  to  you,  dear 
Miss  Graham,"  she  whispered  mysteriously, 
"  if  you  won't  be  vexed  with  me.  I  speak 
from  a  sense  of  duty  and  from  the  best  and 
kindest  motives,  and  because  I  feel  you 
ought  to  know. " 

"  What  shall  we  dress  her  in,  dress  her  in,  dress  her  in  ? 
What  shall  we  dress  her  in dress  her  i}i  now  ?  " 


DISCLOSURES.  159 

Miss  Graham  turned  from  the  children 
with  a  sigh  of  regret.  When  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer spoke  under  moral  compulsion,  she  al- 
ways said  something  unpleasant. 

"What  is  it.-*  "  she  asked  simply. 

"It  is  about  Miss  Chance, — Charity,  I 
mean.  Dear  Miss  Graham,  you  know  what 
the  Babblemouth  people  are,  and  how  they 
tattle."  Mrs.  Mortimer  shook  her  head 
censoriously.  "I  wouldn't  say  a  word 
myself  for  the  world  —  only  it  is  such  a  pity 
when  a  girl  is  talked  about  —  " 

"Talked  about.'"'  interposed  Miss  Gra- 
ham, sharply.  "  Oh,  yes.  I  have  no  doubt 
of  it.  Foolish  idle  tongues  cannot  be 
stopped.      So  much  the  worse  for  them." 

"Ah!  How  true  that  is!"  sighed  Mrs. 
Mortimer.  "And  you  know  I  have  always 
felt  the  deepest  regard  for  —  for  Charity. 
She  is  so  spontaneous,  so  impulsive,  one 
cannot  help  being  in  love  with  her.  You 
see,  we  who  know  her  understand  and 
appreciate  these  good  qualities.  You  and 
I,  dear  Miss  Graham,  see  her  true  worth. 
And  of  course  things  are  always   cxagger- 


i6o  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

ated.  Perhaps  I  may  be  wrong  in  detail, 
but  I  will  find  out  —  " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  find  out  in  Charity," 
cried  Miss  Graham,  warmly.  "  Her  faults 
are  all  on  the  surface.  She  is  so  trans- 
parent that  any  one  may  see  to  the  bottom 
of  her  soul." 

"Yes.  And  how  beautiful  that  always  is 
—  that  real  ingenuousness.  It  endears  her, 
and  makes  one  feel  all  the  more  that  —  that 
one  must  speak.  But  this  Mr.  Prentice 
with  whom  she  has  become  so  friendly  — 
the  poet,  you  know  —  Theodosia,  you  had 
better  go  and  assist  your  sisters." 

"Friendly  with  Mr.  Prentice!"  The 
little  lady  fired  up,  and  her  eyes  flashed 
with  indignation.  "Friendly  with  Mr. 
Prentice !  Why,  she  scarcely  knows  the 
fellow.  She  met  him  once  at  Graham's; 
and  saw  him  afterwards  in  the  wood,  so 
she  told  me.  That  is  all.  Do  you  think 
she  could  speak  to  a  real  live  genius  with 
long  hair,  and  not  come  home  and  talk  of 
it .''  "  In  impatience  with  such  nonsense, 
Miss  Graham  laughed  outright,  and  abruptly 


DISCLOSURES.  i6i 

turned    her   head   to   watch    the   children, 
still  singing,  — 

"  Black  is  for  mourning,  mmcrning,  motirning. 
Black  is  for  mozirjting.     That  will  do." 

"Then  I  think,  dear  Miss  Graham,  you 
ought  to  be  told  the  truth."  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer pinched  her  thin  lips  in  determination 
not  to  shrink  from  an  unpleasant  duty.  "  It 
would  be  no  true  kindness  either  to  your- 
self or  Charity  to  allow  you  to  remain  in 
ignorance.  Besides,  a  word  from  you  will 
do  so  much.  It  must,  if  there  is  any  grati- 
tude in  this  world." 

She  paused,  shook  her  head  in  doubt, 
glanced  at  Charity  towering  so  tall  and 
graceful  above  the  little  cotton-clad  paupers, 
and  sinking  her  voice  poured  forth  an  un- 
ceasing stream  of  whispered  gossip.  On 
and  on  it  gurgled,  like  rain  out  of  a  gar- 
goyle on  a  wet  day.  How  Charity  had  met 
Mr.  Prentice  by  appointment  at  the  rock  on 
the  hill-top,  not  once  nor  twice,  but  every 
day  for  a  fortnight;  and  Mr.  Prentice  was 
there  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  to  the 


i62  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

last  thing  at  night,  so  that  Charity  might 
run  out  when  she  could ;  for  John  Sprake 
had  seen  them,  and  John  told  William  the 
coachman,  who  told  Selina,  of  course,  who, 
when  she  was  dusting  the  dining-room  the 
other  morning,  began  to  mention  it  —  "not 
that  I  ever  allow  a  servant  of  mine  to  utter 
one  word  about  anybody,  or  listen  to  any- 
thing that  is  said ;  for  I  either  check  them 
at  once,  or  give  them  a  severe  scolding 
afterwards ;  but  when  I  found  Charity  going 
to  his  lodgings,  and  in  fact  with  my  own 
eyes  saw  her  there  on  the  evening  of  Mr. 
Poltimore-Briggs's  meeting,  I  felt  it  my 
duty,  for  the  sake  of  the  girl  herself,  to  let 
you  know  what  is  going  on.  I  should  have 
walked  over  on  purpose  if  we  had  not  been 
coming  this  afternoon,  no  matter  at  what 
inconvenience.  Nothing  should  have  pre- 
vented me. " 

Mrs.  Mortimer,  who  had  been  drilling 
holes  in  the  turf  with  the  top  of  her  para- 
sol, suddenly  looked  up  and  cut  short  her 
harangue. 

Miss    Graham,    sitting    more    than    ever 


DISCLOSURES.  163 

erect,  was  white  with  anger  and  wounded 
pride.  But  the  little  lady  did  not  lose  her 
self-control.  "You  are  very  good  indeed," 
she  said,  so  calmly  that  the  compliment 
sounded  sincere,  but  so  coldly  that  Mrs. 
Mortimer  felt  quite  uncomfortable.  "  If 
Charity  has  talked  to  him  unknown  to  me, 
no  doubt  the  conversation  was  too  unimpor- 
tant to  repeat." 

Mrs.  Mortimer  fidgeted  upon  her  camp- 
stool.  Something  within  warned  her  to 
desist,  but  the  temptation  to  tell  was  alto- 
gether too  much  for  her.  Moreover  a  re- 
lentless conscience  commanded  complete 
disclosure  of  the  worst,  —  how  Theodosia 
had  overheard,  —  not  that  she  listened,  dear 
child,  for  none  had  a  keener  sense  of 
honour  than  Theodosia,  —  had  overheard  the 
most  terrible  conversation  that  night  when 
she  was  picking  foxgloves  for  the  decora- 
tions. So  that  at  first  the  poor  child,  be- 
lieving it  must  be  Graham  himself,  from 
feelings  of  delicacy  crept  further  into  the 
wood,  to  let  them  pass  by  undisturbed.  But 
when  she  saw  who  it  was,  she  was  astounded. 


i64  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"  Nobody  knows  what  that  poor  thing  suf- 
fered," sighed  Mrs.  Mortimer,  from  the 
depths  of  a  mother's  heart.  "  For  two 
whole  days  and  nights  she  never  once  closed 
her  eyes,  nor  ate  enough  to  keep  a  sparrow. 
She  is  so  peculiarly  sensitive  to  considera- 
tions of  right  and  wrong,  she  dared  not 
breathe  a  word  for  fear  of  being  mean.  She 
could  not  say  her  prayers  with  such  a  load 
upon  her  mind.  She  could  not  sleep.  At 
last  she  sent  for  me  —  in  such  a  burning 
fever  that  I  thought  of  calling  in  Bibberley 
—  and  told  me  all.  I  gave  her  two  glob- 
ules of  aconite  at  once,  and  exhausted  nature 
slept  like  a  child." 

"I  do  not  believe  a  word  of  it,"  cried 
Miss  Graham,  fiercely.  "I  have  never 
known  Charity  do  a  wicked  thing  —  or 
repeat  an  unkind  one  —  or  repeat  an  unkind 
one." 

As  she  nodded  to  emphasise  the  repeti- 
tion, Mrs.  Mortimer  winced  and  drew  up 
her  head. 

"  We  know  how  you  dote  on  Miss  Chance, 
dear  Miss  Graham.      It  is  only  natural  that 


DISCLOSURES.  165 

you    should.      But    others    can    be    at    least 
truthful.      Let  me  call  Theodosia?" 

"  I  want  no  corroboration.  Nothing 
would  make  me  believe  a  word  of  it. 
Duplicity  and  deceit  are  contrary  to  Char- 
ity's nature.  And  you  have  always  slighted 
and  looked  down  upon  her.  Every  one  of 
you  from  the  first.  You  are  all  envious  of 
her." 

Mrs.  Mortimer  clutched  her  parasol,  for 
after  all  she  was  the  rector's  wife.  "Envi- 
ous—  envious  of  Charity  Chance!" 

"Yes.  Envious.  Because  she  has  more 
mind,  and  a  finer  temper,  and  a  truer  soul. 
Hundreds  of  times  I  have  seen  and  resented 
it  in  my  heart.  I  could  never  resent  it 
openly,  here  in  my  own  place.  But  now 
she  is  to  marry  Graham  she  is  nearer  to  me. 
Not  dearer,  but  closer.  And  everything 
affecting  her  touches  me  —  touches  me  to 
the  quick." 

Whilst  speaking,  the  little  cripple  uncon- 
sciously pressed  her  hand  upon  her  bosom, 
and  a  red  spot  burned  upon  her  pale  cheek. 

Mrs.  Mortimer  arose  from  her  camp-stool 


i66  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

with  a  dignity  so  stupendous  that  nothing 
human  could  keep  it  up. 

"As  long  as  I  live,"  she  bounced  out,  "I 
will  never  try  to  do  a  good  action  again." 
The  assertion  sounded  a  little  sweeping, 
and  she  stammered  between  hysterical  sobs : 
"  I  mean  —  I  mean  —  I  meant  merely  to 
give  a  hint  for  the  sake  of  the  girl.  I 
thought  you  ought  to  know.  Envious  of 
Charity  Chance !  Theodosia,  you  must  walk 
home  with  me,  dear.  I  am  feeling  a  little 
upset.  The  other  girls  may  stay  if  they 
have  tempers  fine  enough  and  souls  true 
enough  to  be  of  any  service." 

Without  a  protest  from  her  indignant 
hostess,  in  consort  with  Theodosia  she 
sailed  past  Charity,  the  workhouse  children, 
and  the  wondering  eight,  and  disappeared 
through  the  iron  gates. 

The  singing  had  ceased.  There  was  a 
lull  in  the  games. 

"Go  on  playing,  children,"  urged  Miss 
Graham,  with  a  smile.  She  was  so  exasper- 
ated that  she  appeared  calm.  But  the  hap- 
piness of  her  little  guests  no  longer  gave 


DISCLOSURES.  167 

delight.  She  was  disturbed,  humiliated, 
and  the  excitement  had  brought  on  her  hid- 
den pain.  She  had  taken  part  in  a  vulgar 
altercation, — a  scene.  She  detested  Mrs. 
Mortimer  for  having  moved  her  to  anger. 
And  yet,  was  this  prejudice  against  Charity 
to  last  to  the  end  of  time  .-*  What  could  the 
child  have  done  to  raise  such  a  report.? 
Spoken  to  the  fellow  in  the  street,  perhaps, 
and  set  these  Babblemouth  canaille  bark- 
ing. Met  him  by  accident  in  the  wood,  and 
aroused  the  suspicions  of  Theodosia,  indeed, 
who  would  have  given  her  eyes  to  marry  Gra- 
ham. Yet  a  girl  could  not  be  too  careful. 
She  would  say  a  word  to  Charity,  tenderly, 
without  wounding  her  sensibilities  by  tell- 
ing how  much  Mrs.  Mortimer  had  said.  She 
sighed  from  the  depths  of  her  soul.  Why 
was  not  everybody  kindly  and  true  and 
sweet.''  She  shivered  with  mortification, 
there  in  the  warm  sun.  She  neither  heard 
the  tinkle  of  the  tea-cups  nor  gloried  in  the 
demolition  of  the  buns.  And  when  the 
workhouse  children  at  departure  filed  past 
to  courtesy  before  her  chair,    she  received 


i68  CHARITY   CPIANCE. 

each  salutation  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  was 
glad  to  get  them  gone.  The  Mortimer  girls 
went  also.      She  did  not  ask  them  to  stay. 

"Take  me  indoors,  Charity.  I  will  not 
wait  for  Sprake. " 

Charity  wheeled  the  chair  across  the  lawn 
to  the  French  window,  and  together  they 
slowly  mounted  the  three  steps.  But  safely 
upon  the  sofa  Miss  Graham  still  held  the 
girl's  arm. 

"  Sit  down.  I  want  you,  child,"  she  com- 
manded in  her  abrupt  way. 

With  a  sinking  heart  Charity  obeyed. 
Yet  again  a  talk  about  her  marriage,  she 
thought. 

In  her  refined  tenderness  the  little  lady 
hesitated,  scarcely  knowing  how  to  begin. 
Then  in  a  low  voice  she  said,  — 

"Charity,  as  you  go  through  life,  dear, 
you  will  find  thousands  of  things,  indif- 
ferent in  themselves,  which  nevertheless 
assume  importance  in  their  consequences. 
Since  we  have  to  live  in  the  world,  we 
must  do  as  the  world  does.  Not  in  its  fol- 
lies and  frivolities,  I  do  not  mean  that,  but 


DISCLOSURES.  169 

in  the  observance  of  its  little  conventional- 
ities. It  does  n't  do  to  do  everything  that 
has  no  harm  in  it.  It  is  wiser  to  conform. 
There  is  an  art  of  living  to  be  learned  — • 
quite  a  fine  art  in  its  way.  Now  this  Mr. 
Prentice,  whom  they  tell  me  you  have  — 
How  you  tremble,  child!  I  know  there  is 
no  harm  of  course  —  they  say  you  have 
met  —  " 

"I  love  him.  I  love  him  with  all  my 
heart. " 

The  cry,  sudden  and  passionate,  was 
both  self-accusation  and  excuse.  The  gen- 
tle confidence  and  affection  expressed  in 
every  word  Miss  Graham  had  uttered,  sank 
into  the  girl's  soul.  The  warm  pressure  of 
those  nervous  fingers,  still  resting  on  her 
arm  like  a  caress,  broke  her  spirit.  She 
burst  into  a  flood  of  weeping.  Better  never 
to  have  been  born  than  to  break  the  heart 
that  had  taken  and  cherished  her.  Better 
to  be  dead  and  in  her  grave.  Then  with 
the  caprice  of  passion  she  dashed  away  her 
tears,  shook  off  the  restraining  hand,  and 
stood  up  fearless  and  defiant. 


I/O  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"Yes.      I  love  him,"  she  cried  again. 

"  Charity,  you  are  beside  yourself.  You 
let  your  imagination  run  away  with  you. 
Why,  you  've  scarcely  seen  the  fellow. 
You  are  immodest  —  shameless — •" 

As  she  threw  these  words  like  missiles 
at  the  girl,  the  little  cripple  rose,  and,  quiv- 
ering with  excitement,  leaned  forward  upon 
her  ebony  stick. 

"  I  wanted  to  do  what  was  true,  but  there 
was  no  help  for  me,"  wailed  Charity.  "It 
seemed  so  easy  when  I  said  I  would  marry 
Graham.  It  was  to  make  everybody  happy. 
That  was  my  only  thought.  But  I  did  not 
know  my  own  heart.      How  could  I  know.?  " 

"  Mere  midsummer  madness !  "  cried  Miss 
Graham,  striking  her  stick  upon  the  floor. 
"  A  month  ago  you  had  never  set  eyes  upon 
this  —  this  rhymer.  A  day  or  so  and  he 
will  be  gone.  Do  you  think  he  will  ever 
bestow  a  thought  upon  you  ?  Or  upon  any- 
thing when  the  moment  of  his  shallow  vanity 
has  passed  ? " 

This  contempt  for  Prentice  stung  Charity 
into  resentment.     No   longer  pleading  for 


DISCLOSURES.  171 

pity,  her  spirit  arose  in  revolt  against  such 
injustice. 

"  Whether  he  is  a  rhymer  or  a  poet,  he 
loves  me.      He  said  so  —  " 

"And  you  stooped  to  listen.  You,  hav- 
ing promised  to  marry,  admitted  this  stran- 
ger to  such  familiarity  that  he  dared  to  tell 
you  so.  No  wonder  they  come  to  warn  me. 
What  they  say  is  true.  I  can  see  it  is  true. 
You  walked  with  the  man  you  were  to 
marry,  and  with  his  words  still  in  your  ears, 
you  crept  down  into  the  wood  at  dusk  to 
meet  this  mountebank.  I  can  believe  any- 
thing now.  And  you  went  to  his  room. 
Did  you  go  to  his  room.-' " 

Miss  Graham  stopped,  but  the  girl  did 
not  answer.  For  a  moment  they  looked  at 
each  other.  The  habitual  sweetness  had 
melted  out  of  the  little  cripple's  eyes. 
Only  the  nervous  shrewd  intelligence  was 
left.  Lifted  above  all  tenderness  and  pity, 
she  looked  down  from  a  height  of  virtuous 
indignation.  And  a  sense  of  wrong  hard- 
ened the  girl's  pride  to  adamant. 

"  I  am  ashamed!  " 


1/2  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

With  a  deep  sigh  Miss  Graham  turned 
away.  All  her  hopes  were  dashed  to  the 
ground.  Her  dignity  was  broken.  No 
words  could  express  for  her  a  deeper  degra- 
dation. She  hobbled  a  few  steps  toward 
the  door;  and  then,  overcome  by  the  bitter- 
ness of  disappointment  and  a  sense  of  the 
girl's  ingratitude,  she  could  control  herself 
no  longer. 

"  Yes.  I  am  ashamed  —  ashamed  that  all 
these  years  could  do  no  more  than  this.  I 
took  you  from  the  first.  I  fed  you  —  clothed 
you  —  taught  you  from  my  own  lips. 
Everything  that  could  soil  your  mind  or 
cast  a  stain  upon  your  soul  I  kept  from  you. 
Everything  that  was  noble  and  sweet  and 
good,  I  set  before  your  eyes.  I  poured  it 
into  your  ears.  I  could  not  bear  to  let  you 
out  of  my  sight.  When  you  came  back 
from  the  school,  I  watched  you, —  your  every 
step,  every  movement.  I  trembled  lest 
vulgarity  might  have  breathed  upon  you. 
I  listened  to  every  word,  alert  for  a  false 
note.  I  said,  I  will  shelter  her,  and  pro- 
vide  against   every  ill    in  life,   except  the 


DISCLOSURES.  173 

inevitable  sorrows  that  nature  heaps  upon 
us.  But  I  was  a  fool  for  my  pains.  An 
utter  fool !  It  is  in  the  blood.  I  might 
have  known  it  when  they  told  me  so.  But 
it  w'as  all  so  pitiful  that  I  seized  you 
eagerly.  I  would  hear  no  word  of  counsel. 
There  are  poor  enough,  in  God's  name,  who 
are  well-born.  I  might  have  taken  a  lady. 
I  might  at  least  have  taken  a  child  of 
decent  folk  —  " 

The  girl  moaned. 

"  Who  was  I .''  "  she  gasped. 

Miss  Graham  felt  no  compunction.  Her 
words  ran  on  like  a  winter  torrent,  pitiless 
and  cruel. 

"You  were  nobody!"  she  cried.  "A 
nameless  child,  cast  away  and  picked  up 
upon  the  quay.  A  workhouse  brat,  as  you 
just  now  called  them  yourself,  christened  a 
grotesque  name,  the  fanciful  invention  of 
a  workhouse  master.  The  pathos  of  it 
touched  me.  I  must  needs  take  you,  fool 
that  I  was  —  " 

"  And  everybody  knows  ?  " 

"  Everybody  has  always  known  but  you. 


174  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

I  kept  it  from  you.  You  might  have  gone 
to  your  grave  no  wiser  if  —  " 

But  the  girl  had  already  fled.  Through 
the  French  window,  across  the  lawn,  and 
past  the  shrubbery  into  the  wood.  There, 
like  a  thing  wounded  to  death,  she  crept  out 
of  sight  between  the  larch-trees  and  threw 
herself  upon  the  ground.  She  wept  and 
sobbed  in  a  passion  of  misery  and  shame. 
She  could  not  think.  She  did  not  feel. 
Even  at  the  height  of  her  agony  came  a 
moment  of  intense  calm,  when  she  told 
herself  that  she  did  not  feel.  Something 
was  wanting,  some  moral  sense,  some  qual- 
ity of  heart.  One  vital  spark  of  true  emo- 
tion and  she  must  have  loved  Graham.  One 
natural  touch  of  tenderness  and  to  bring 
sorrow  upon  the  woman  who  loved  her 
would  have  been  more  terrible  than  death. 

She  hid  her  face  upon  the  brown  earth. 
She  pressed  her  cheek  upon  the  dry  larch 
spines.      She  wished  that  she  was  dead. 

She  was  nothing.  A  friendless  waif 
thrown  upon  the  world  to  be  picked  up  by 
charity.     All  her  life  had  been  unreal,  and 


DISCLOSURES.  175 

this  was  the  awakening.  Why  was  she  not 
left  upon  the  quay  to  die.-*  Why  was  she 
taken  from  the  workhouse  to  live  a  dream 
of  joy,  and  wake  into  a  terror  of  calamity.^ 
She  clenched  her  teeth,  and  cried  that  it 
was  cruel.  It  was  not  pity  at  all.  Miss 
Graham  had  made  a  plaything  of  her.  It 
was  like  Eve  in  Eden,  where  she  needs  must 
eat  and  be  driven  out  upon  the  earth. 

She  must  go.  The  quicker  the  better! 
Away  from  this  place,  where  every  object 
recalled  her  shame ;  from  these  Babble- 
mouth  people  who  looked  down  upon  her 
with  such  scorn.  But  whither.'  In  her 
whole  life  was  only  one  thing  real,  —  her 
love  for  Prentice.  And  he  loved  her.  He 
was  a  poet,  with  a  heart  above  littleness,  a 
sense  beyond  what  was  mean,  —  and  he 
loved  her.  He  would  take  her  at  once  as 
he  had  wished  to  do.  Her  heart  rose  in 
exultation.  He  was  poor,  and  she  loved 
poverty.  He  would  be  great,  and  she 
gloried  in  greatness. 

A  sudden  doubt  clouded  the  momentary 
gleam.     When  he  knew  her  story,  would  he 


176  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

change?  Would  he  marry  a  workhouse 
foundling  without  a  friend  in  the  whole 
world  ? 

She  cast  the  thought  from  her  mind. 
How  mean  even  for  a  moment  to  have  har- 
boured it!  With  his  vehement,  generous 
love  for  reality,  he  would  laugh  away  the 
prejudices  of  the  narrow-minded  world. 
Was  it  her  fault  that  she  was  Charity 
Chance.-*  She  cried  in  anger,  she  would 
rather  be  as  she  was  than  as  the  people 
who  came  whispering  malice  and  lies  about 
her.      She  would  go  to  him  at  once. 

She  got  up  and  shook  the  dead  brown 
spines  from  her  white  frock.  She  would 
not  cross  the  garden  to  the  high-road. 
Above  the  wood  was  a  by-path  leading  into 
Babblemouth,  and  she  climbed  up  the  hill- 
side and  stood  a  moment  breathless  upon 
the  steep.  Evening  was  creeping  on. 
The  harbour  lamp  glimmered  dimly  through 
the  fading  light.  So  much  the  better.  She 
would  reach  the  town  unseen.  Yet  what 
did  it  matter  now  .-*  Babblemouth  had 
talked   for   years.       A   group  of   seafaring 


DISCLOSURES.  177 

men  and  loafers  were  talking  now  upon  the 
quay,  as  they  had  stood  and  talked  the  day 
that  she  was  found.  She  hated  the  little 
hole,  and  all  its  people.  Her  only  longing 
was  to  go,  and  see  the  place  no  more. 

The  way  winded  through  a  deep  hollow 
where  between  banks  abrupt  and  ragged  she 
was  quite  shut  in.  The  solitude  and  wild- 
ness  were  in  keeping  with  her  lot.  Her 
mind  was  made  up.  If  he  would  take  her, 
she  was  ready.  In  her  excitement  she  strode 
on  with  impulsive  haste. 

Upon  the  road  she  met  no  one,  but  she 
saw  the  people  turn  to  look  at  her  as  she 
hurried  down  the  street.  They  knew  her 
for  the  foundling  and  charity-girl  well 
enough.  Upon  the  quay  the  loafers  had 
stopped  their  gossip  to  gaze  at  a  -carriage 
from  "The  George,"  drawn  up  before  Mrs. 
Dibbin's  little  bow-windowed  house. 

Her  heart  beat  fast.  This  fell  so  aptly 
with  what  he  had  said  that  it  took  away  her 
breath.  She  stopped,  and  for  a  moment 
clutched  the  iron  railings  with  one  hand. 
Then  she  went  on  acrain. 


178  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

The  door  of  the  house  was  wide  open, 
and  before  she  had  time  to  knock,  Alfred 
Prentice  came  running  down  the  stairs. 
Upon  his  arm  was  an  overcoat,  and  in  his 
hand  a  small  travelling-bag,  which  he  put 
down  in  the  passage,  to  look  at  his  watch. 
In  great  haste  he  almost  pushed  past  Charity 
without  recognition. 

"Mr.  Prentice,"  she  whispered. 

He  threw  the  bag  and  coat  into  the  car- 
riage and  came  back  to  her. 

"This  is  most  delightfully  opportune," 
he  said,  speaking  very  rapidly.  "  I  have 
been  called  away  suddenly,  and  there  is 
only  just  time  to  catch  the  night  train.  An 
important  editor  wants  to  see  me  —  " 

"  Something  has  happened,"  she  gasped; 
"and  I  came  to  tell  you." 

Again  he  looked  at  the  time. 

"  Come  upstairs." 

He  beckoned  and  led  the  way,  like  a  man 
of  business  with  just  one  moment  to  spare. 
She  followed  with  faltering  courage.  His 
most  trivial  utterance  had  always  sounded 
sympathetic   and   full  of   feeling,   but  now 


DISCLOSURES.  179 

there  was  no  tenderness  in  his  tone.  Even 
in  her  agitation  she  noticed  that  he  was 
pale  and  excited.  He  glanced  nervously 
down  at  the  carriage  in  the  street,  as  if 
every  moment  were  precious  to  him. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  that  everything  is 
over."  Her  passion  was  too  real,  and  she 
too  frank  to  withhold  or  disguise  anything. 
"  When  you  spoke  to  me  the  other  day,  I 
was  not  free.  But  they  taxed  me  with 
meeting  you,  and  I  avowed  it.  I  said  I 
loved  you.  Nothing  else  was  possible  after 
all  you  have  said  to  me.  It  would  have 
been  as  if  I  were  ashamed  of  what  I  am 
most  proud.  Then  she  told  me  I  was  a 
pauper,  — a  nobody,  without  a  name  to  call 
my  own.  It  is  not  possible  to  live  at  Bab- 
blecombe  any  longer.  And  I  came  to  —  to 
ask  you  what  I  must  do." 

He  paced  across  the  room,  and  anxiously 
back  to  the  window.  He  was  preoccupied, 
and  she  saw  that  he  had  heard  her  words 
without  realising  the  blow  which  had  fallen 
upon  her.  "You  must  do  nothing  rash," 
he  said  with  grave  deliberation,  and  paused. 


i8o  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

Nothing  rash!  The  most  unpoetic  soul 
on  earth  might  utter  trite  wisdom  such  as 
that. 

He  passed  his  fingers  through  his  long 
black  hair.  Then  he  caught  sight  of  the 
look  of  wonder  and  terrified  inquiry  in  her 
great  frank  eyes,  and  was  himself  again. 

"  Charity,  you  know  how  much  I  love 
you,"  he  said  in  a  voice  quivering  with  emo- 
tion. "  But  I  should  be  the  meanest  man 
who  ever  lived  if  I  allowed  my  poor  pas- 
sion to  weigh  against  your  true  welfare. 
You  must  go  back  to  Miss  Graham.  Self- 
restraint  is  the  secret  of  all  true  living. 
Nothing  can  alter  our  love.  And  I  will 
think  —  and  write  to  you.  Yes,  that  will 
be  the  best  thing.  I  will  write  to  you. 
But  I  must  go.  It  is  important  I  must  be 
in  London  to-morrow." 

He  was  tender,  magnanimous,  prudent, 
and  attentive  to  business,  all  in  so  many 
phrases.  And  it  was  all  real  too  —  as  images 
in  a  reflection  are  real.  Then  he  hurriedly 
kissed  her,  and  ran  to  catch  his  train. 

The  driver  cracked  his  whip ;  the  carriage- 


DISCLOSURES.  i8i 

wheels  rattled  over  the  stones  with  which 
the  quay  was  paved ;  and  he  was  gone. 

And  was  this  all  the  help  that  love  could 
offer  in  her  time  of  need.-*  In  her  dream 
he  had  taken  her  to  his  arms.  "  Come,  we 
will  marry  at  once,"  he  said,  and  carried 
her  away  into  a  new  and  brilliant  future 
beyond  reach  of  the  past.  She  stood  there, 
as  motionless  as  Niobe  in  the  midst  of  her 
dead  hopes.  Hidden  and  unsuspected  forces 
were  shaking  the  garden  of  ideals.  The 
green  island  of  inexperience  was  crumbling 
under  her  feet.  For  the  earth  had  opened, 
and  Charity  Chance  was  on  the  brink  of  an 
abyss. 

At  last  she  aroused  herself  to  return 
home.  She  did  not  notice  the  faded  lit- 
tle yellow-haired  woman  who  asked  her 
whether  Mr.  Prentice  lived  there,  as  she 
was  passing  out  of  the  door. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


CHARITY    GONE. 


Charity  was  gone ! 

Broken-hearted  and  purposeless  she  had 
crept  home  through  the  darkness  to  her 
little  room  over  the  porch,  and  cried  away 
the  night.  Her  spirit  was  benumbed.  But 
dawn  came  rising  above  the  brim  of  the  hill, 
daylight  poured  into  the  coombe,  and 
meadows  and  lawn  glistened  cold  with 
morning  dew.  Another  day  was  come. 
She  bestirred  herself  to  think  what  she 
must  do.  She  must  write  to  Graham.  She 
seated  herself  at  the  table  before  the  win- 
dow and  wrote  him  a  letter  imploring  his 
pardon.  She  was  unworthy  of  his  love,  had 
disgraced  herself  and  him,  had  never  de- 
served his  confidence,  and  he  must  forget 


CHARITY   GONE.  183 

her.  She  had  learned  her  own  .story,  she 
told  him,  and  should  leave  Babblemouth  at 
once.  Poor  Graham !  His  goodness  and 
fidelity  touched  her  as  she  thought  of  her 
own  inconstancy.  She  felt  a  tenderness 
towards  the  playmate  of  her  childhood  as 
she  penned  this  farewell. 

But  where  was  she  to  go.-*  No  matter 
where,  so  long  as  she  could  earn  her  living 
out  of  sight  oE  all  who  knew  her.  She 
must  take  the  first  thing  that  offered,  no 
matter  what. 

It  was  very  early,  and  no  one  in  the 
house  had  moved.  In  idleness  she  had 
often  scanned  the  columns  of  advertise- 
ments in  The  Guardian,  a  paper  held  by 
Miss  Graham  in  high  estimation;  and  now 
she  fetched  the  last  issue  from  downstairs, 
and  set  herself  to  search  in  earnest.  Of 
money  she  knew  nothing.  Her  wants  had 
ever  been  anticipated.  Vulgar  considera- 
tions of  cash  lay  submerged  and  unsuspected 
in  a  sea  of  unlimited  credit,  for  payment  of 
accounts  looks  almost  poetic  upon  cheques 
of  finest  lithography  and  delicate  tint.      She 


i84  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

quickly  turned  over  the  pages,  but  her  eye 
first  alighted  upon  the  "situations  wanted. " 

"Lady  CroivborougJi  warmly  recommends 
Jier  governess.  TJioroitgh  English,  fluent 
French,  German  (acquired  abivad),  Latiji, 
Drawing,  Afnsic,  Singing,  Calisthenics.  — 
Miss  R.,  the  Libj'ary,  OldJinrst,  Berks.'' 

Who  would  recommend  her?  Or  what 
could  she  say  for  herself?  With  a  sigh 
she  turned  over  the  leaf,  but  found  no  com- 
fort. Here  every  accomplishment  under 
the  sun  was  wanted, — "Good  temper,  disci- 
plinarian. Must  be  a  lady.  Care  of  clothes. 
Photo  and  particulars.  Stratford  Rectory, 
Hants:' 

She  clenched  her  teeth  in  anger.  What 
did  they  mean  with  their  "  must  be  a  lady  "  ? 
She  could  not  answer  that. 

In  the  whole  range  was  only  one  that  did 
not  exclude  her  in  advance.  Mrs.  Corne- 
lius Porter  of  Forest  Hill  required  a  nur- 
sery governess  to  take  charge  of  five 
children.  Must  be  expej'ienccd  in  teachijig. 
Music  esse7itial.  ;!^I5  to  ^{^25  accordijtg 
to  qualifications. 


CHARITY   GONE.  185 

This  at  least  displayed  openness  to  argu- 
ment, perhaps  to  conviction. 

In  her  quick  impulsive  way  she  seized 
her  pen.  It  was  the  mere  clutching  at  a 
straw  in  her  last  hopelessness,  but  she 
wrote.  She  shivered  to  see  what  she  had 
written,  it  looked  so  fraudulent,  —  and 
added  she  would  gladly  accept  the  lower 
sum  on  account  of  her  inexperience.  Then 
she  stole  out  in  the  cheerless  morning,  and 
dropped  both  letters  into  the  red  post-box 
in  the  garden  wall.  Having  thus  taken 
her  fate  into  her  hands,  she  became  more 
composed.  She  threw  herself  upon  the 
bed  and  slept. 

Some  hours  elapsed,  and  with  a  start  she 
awoke.  The  sun  was  shining  full  into  the 
window,  and  a  maid  was  tapping  at  the 
door.  Miss  Graham  sent  word  she  was 
not  well,  and  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed. 
To  be  alone  was  a  relief  to  Charity,  and 
yet  the  message  cut  her  to  the  quick.  It 
was  considerate,  but  it  marked  the  fall. 
How  much  weariness  before  now  she  had 
read    away !      How    much    pain    she    had 


i86  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

soothed  by  merely  sitting  by  the  bedside! 
And  that  was  over.  Her  conscience 
groaned  under  a  burden  of  ingratitude.  It 
told  her  again  and  again  how  deeply  the 
little  cripple  loved  her.  And  she  had  lost 
the  wish  of  her  heart. 

When  at  last  Charity  went  downstairs,  the 
house  was  as  silent  as  a  grave.  Even  the 
servants  moved  mysteriously,  and  cast  in- 
quisitive glances  at  her  red  eyes  and  pale 
face.  They  knew  all  about  her,  like  the 
rest  of  the  world.  Yes,  the  sooner  she  was 
gone  the  better. 

Thus  the  miserable  day  passed  —  until 
evening.  Then  came  a  quick  step  across 
the  hall,  and  unannounced  Graham  rushed 
into  the  room.  His  face  was  burnt  by  the 
sun,  he  was  white  with  the  dust  of  the 
road,  and  in  his  hand  was  the  letter  she 
had  written  him. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  it,  Charity.?" 
In  his  resentment  he  could  not  wait  for  a 
reply.  "  What  have  they  been  saying  to 
you?  Who  has  dared  to  comment  upon 
you.?     But    I   know  what  they  have   said. 


CHARITY   GONE.  187 

They  have  even  hinted  it  to  me;  and  some 
fool  sent  me  an  anonymous  letter.  Do  they 
think  I  care  what  they  say.'*  Charity  dear, 
if  every  tongue  on  earth  were  to  tattle  about 
you,  I  should  only  love  you  the  more.  I 
know  their  gossip  about  Prentice.  Of  course 
you  have  talked  to  Prentice.  There  are 
very  few  to  interest  you  in  this  place.  I  'm 
not  half  good  enough  for  you.  Charity,  I 
know  that.  But  I  'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to 
listen  to  anything  t]icy  say.  Why,  you  can't 
do  anything  wrong  or  mean.  You  have  a 
mind  that  won't  let  you.  Charity,  I  think 
you  are  the  noblest  —  " 

"  Oh,  stop  !  stop  !  "  she  cried,  placing  her 
fingers  upon  her  ears.  Pie  had  seated  him- 
self upon  the  sofa  beside  her,  and  now  he 
laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder.  But  she 
shrank  away  from  his  touch.  She  got  up 
quickly  and  crossed  the  room.  Her  back 
towards  him,  she  leaned  against  the  mantel- 
piece, and,  burying  her  face  upon  her  arms, 
she  sobbed  and  sobbed. 

Just  as  Miss  Graham's  delicate  confi- 
dence,  so  her   lover's   absolute  trust  over- 


i88  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

whelmed  her  with  shame.  He  followed 
and  stood  by  her  side. 

"Charity,"  he  stammered,  in  a  voice  so 
low  that  it  was  scarcely  audible,  "I  —  I 
don't  know  how  you  have  learnt  your  — 
your  story.  You  once  asked  me,  and  I  told 
you  I  did  not  know.  But  I  always  knew  all 
there  was  to  know.  I  thought —  I  mean  if 
you  thought  I  did  not  know,  and  that  could 
make  any  difference —  Charity,  marry  me 
at  once.  I  have  always  known  and  loved 
you  for  yourself.  Marry  me  now — before 
I  go  back. " 

How  manly  and  true  he  was !  She  had 
never  glimpsed  into  the  depth  of  his  char- 
acter, through  the  light-hearted  careless- 
ness of  his  life.  But  he  did  not  understand 
how  his  words  wounded  and  hurt  her. 

She  raised  her  head,  and  looked  him  in 
the  face  with  frightened  eyes  beseeching 
pity. 

"I  shall  never  marry  you,  Graham," 
she  cried  wildly,  "nor  any  one.  You  will 
never  see  me  again.  I  shall  go  away  at 
once.     I  shall  never  come  back.     I  shall 


CHARITY   GONE.  189 

hide  my  face  for  ever.  And  you  must  for- 
give and  forget  me." 

Neither  argument  nor  entreaty  could 
sustain  her  against  this  torrent  of  pas- 
sionate shame.  He  knew  that  both  were 
useless,  and  his  love  itself  forbade  him  to 
persist. 

Then  his  disappointment  turned  to  self- 
reproach. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  you,  and  there  is 
nothing  to  forgive.  It  is  my  own  fault. 
I  made  you  promise  me.  I  cared  about 
nothing  so  long  as  you  said  yes.  I  was  vain 
enough  to  think  it  would  all  come  right  —  " 

Her  face  betrayed  the  depth  of  her  dis- 
tress. Conscious  of  the  cruelty  of  his 
words,  he  suddenly  stopped.  Then  in  a 
voice  subdued  and  quiet  he  went  on  :  "  But 
you  will  stay  with  Aunt  Helen.  It  shall 
not  be  difficult  for  you,  Charity.  I  will  go 
away  —  abroad." 

There  came  a  tap  upon  the  door.  Then 
it  opened. 

Miss  Graham  had  heard  him  come  into 
the  house,  and  wished  to  see  him  at  once. 


190  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"  I  will  come  back  and  speak  to  you, 
Charity,"  he  whispered  as  he  went  away. 

What  would  he  say  when  he  had  learnt 
the  truth  .-•  His  generosity  had  bruised  her 
so  sorely  that  if  he  might  only  despise  and 
cast  her  from  his  heart  it  must  be  a  relief. 
She  returned  to  the  sofa,  and  sat  down  and 
waited.  He  was  so  long  that  the  time 
seemed  endless.  She  began  to  wish  for  him, 
that  she  might  learn  of  Miss  Graham.  At 
last  she  heard  his  step  upon  the  stairs. 
But  on  it  went  across  the  hall.  The  door 
closed  behind  him,  and  he  was  gone.  She 
felt  as  desolate  as  the  marooned  mariner  by 
crime  cut  off  from  humanity,  and  left  to 
perish  upon  a  friendless  shore. 

On  the  second  day  came  a  letter  in 
answer  to  her  application,  accepting  Miss 
Charity  Chance's  services  at  ^15  a  year, 
and  requesting  that  she  would  come  at  once. 
Again  the  message  had  been  sent  that  Miss 
Graham  would  not  rise  to-day  and  did  not 
wish  to  be  disturbed.  The  girl  did  not 
know  what  to  do.  Her  mind  was  made  up. 
She  had  taken  her  life  into  her  own  hands. 


CHARITY   GONE.  191 

and  to-morrow  she  would  go.  This  deter- 
mination, without  delay,  she  placed  beyond 
recall.  She  found  her  train,  and  bade  Jan 
Sprake  despatch  a  telegram  from  Babble- 
mouth  when  he  went  to  exercise  his  horses. 
Then  she  wrote  a  line,  telling  Miss  Graham 
what  she  had  done,  and  asking  if  she  might 
see  her  once  more. 

The  day  she  spent  packing  her  one  big 
black  trunk.  Never  in  her  life  had  she 
been  away  even  on  a  visit,  and  this  had 
been  given  her  only  to  hold  the  superfluity 
of  her  wardrobe.  The  number  of  her  pos- 
sessions, now  all  at  once  laid  open  to  the 
light,  astonished  and  perplexed  her.  She 
did  not  know  what  to  take.  There  were 
trinkets  too,  bestowed  upon  every  occasion, 
—  at  Christmas,  at  the  New  Year,  and  on 
the  anniversary  of  the  day  they  called  her 
birthday.  And  the  old  pearl  necklet  fas- 
tened with  such  pride  around  her  throat 
when  she  started  for  the  ball  at  Babble- 
mouth  last  winter.  The  tenderest  senti- 
ment lingered  around  these  gifts.  She 
wept  that  the  little  cripple's  love  had  met 


192  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

such  poor  requital.  But  she  took  none  of 
them.  She  instinctively  determined  what 
was  really  personal,  and  the  rest  she  left. 
It  was  evening  before  she  had  finished  pack- 
ing, locked  the  trunk,  and  put  the  key  in 
her  pocket. 

Late  that  night  Miss  Graham  sent  for  her. 

The  room  was  almost  dark.  One  candle, 
in  a  tall  silver  candlestick,  stood  upon  a 
table  in  the  corner  farthest  from  the  bed. 
The  curtains  had  been  drawn,  and  the 
pillow,  with  Miss  Graham's  head  upon  it, 
was  quite  hidden  from  view. 

Charity  stood  by  the  foot  of  the  bed  and 
waited. 

"  So  you  are  going.  Charity. "  The  voice 
was  slow  and  clear.  Hundreds  of  times 
the  girl  had  marked  a  like  formal  precise- 
ness  when  some  person  not  in  favour  un- 
consciously affronted  the  dignity  of  the 
little  cripple.  "And  I  may  never  see  you 
again.  I  know  that  you  must  go.  You 
could  not  stay,  and  I  could  not  bear  to  have 
you  here.  But  I  wish  to  say  that  I  am 
sorry  —  sorry  for  the  words  uttered  in  the 


CHARITY   GONE.  193 

moment  of  anger.  Don't  speak, — don't 
dare  to  speak  to  me,  child.  This  going 
for  a  governess  is  an  absurdity.  You  are 
no  more  fit  to  be  governess  than  I  am. 
They  will  turn  you  out  in  three  weeks. 
But  you  have  done  it,  and  so  you  must  go. 
However,  remember  this,  wherever  you 
are,  I  charge  myself  with  your  future  and 
you  need  have  no  anxiety.  Beside  the 
candle  is  an  envelope.  You  will  have  to 
start  by  half-past  nine,  but  I  will  see  to 
that.  And  when  you  leave  this  —  this 
place,  I  will  think  of  something  for  you,  if 
I  ever  can  think.  Take  the  envelope  and 
leave  me.  Don't  speak  a  word.  I  cannot 
talk  any  more.  And  go  to  bed  at  once  and 
rest." 

The  girl  was  used  to  obey,  and  she 
stepped  towards  the  table  to  do  as  she  was 
bid.  But  in  this  thought  for  her  future  was 
no  tenderness.  Disappointment  had  dissi- 
pated the  love  and  the  delight,  and  only  the 
sensitive  pride  and  shrewdness  remained. 
She  glanced  at  the  letter  addressed  to 
"Miss  Charity  Chaitce."  From  early  child- 
13 


194  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

hood  many  a  gift  had  come  like  this. 
Sometimes  it  lay  iipcjn  her  pillow  when 
she  woke.  Or  she  found  it  on  the  table 
when  she  went  to  bed.  It  was  easily  thus, 
for  the  little  cripple  would  hear  no  thanks. 
Had  it  ever  before  been  anything  but  "For 
my  little  one,"  "  To  my  dear  child,''  and  of 
late  always  "  To  dear  Charity  "  .^  Doubtless 
it  contained  money.  Well,  come  what 
may,  she  would  keep  herself  or  die.  She 
withdrew  her  hand,  and  left  the  letter  there 
untouched.  Then  without  a  word  she 
went  away. 

On  the  following  morning  at  the  appointed 
time,  Jan  Sprake  brought  round  the  car- 
riage to  drive  her  to  the  station. 

The  fat  horses  crawled  slowly  up  the 
hill.  Charity  glanced  back  at  the  little 
mansion,  the  lawn,  and  the  shrubberies. 
But  all  were  blurred  and  out  of  shape  with 
tears.  She  could  not  see  the  eager  face 
peering  after  her  between  the  blind  and 
window-shutter.  Nor  hear  the  words,  half- 
lament  and  half-appeal,  which  sobbed  from 
the  bosom  of  the  little  cripple,  — 


CHARITY   GONE.  195 

"Oh,  Charity!     Charity!" 
At  last  the  carriage  turned  over  the  hill- 
top. 

And  Charity  was  gone. 

Her  departure  was  a  nine  days'  wonder 
in  Babblemouth,  and  many  and  circumstan- 
tial were  the  stories  hatched  in  the  glowing 
imagination  of  that  place.  They  sprang 
into  sudden  life,  —  brilliant,  startling, 
erratic,  like  dragon-flies  in  a  summer  sun. 
Miss  Chance  had  come  into  the  town  to 
meet  Mr.  Prentice,  as  she  had  done  every 
day  for  a  month.  He  left  hurriedly  to 
catch  the  evening  train.  She  rose  in  the 
morning,  early,  posted  a  letter,  and  ran 
away  before  the  household  was  up.  They 
met  at  Bath,  and  went  on  to  London 
together.  A  commercial  gentleman  stay- 
ing at  "The  George,"  who  knew  every  soul 
on  earth  by  sight,  had  seen  them  walking 
up  and  down  on  Swindon  platform.  This 
was  a  plain  tale,  and  found  favour  with  pro- 
saic mortals  who  drank  beer  in  the  little 
bar-parlour  of  the  hotel. 


196  CHARITY    CHANCE. 

A  fiction  more  romantic  told  how  Graham 
Poltimore  waylaid  Charity  and  Prentice 
together  in  the  wood,  fell  upon  Prentice, 
threatened  to  thrash  him  within  an  inch  of 
his  life  if  he  dared  again  show  his  nose  in 
the  place,  and  cast  off  Charity,  who  ran 
away  in  the  night,  leaving  a  letter  implor- 
ing Miss  Graham's  forgiveness,  but  hoping 
never  to  return  to  Babblemouth.  This 
version,  as  being  creditable  to  Graham 
Poltimore,  was  adopted  for  party  purposes 
by  the  supporters  of  Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs, 
until  denied  upon  the  authority  of  Jan 
Sprake,  who  drove  Charity  to  the  station. 
It  was  then  found  to  have  been  a  pure  in- 
vention of  the  most  dastardly  character,  set 
about  to  ruin  the  Poltimore-Briggs  family 
in  the  eyes  of  the  electorate. 

It  was  then  known  to  a  certainty  that 
Miss  Graham  turned  Charity  away  from  the 
house,  and  refusing  food  and  comfort  had 
taken  to  her  bed.  Poor  Miss  Graham! 
Very  sad  at  her  time  of  life  —  and  so 
afflicted  too.  Well !  she  had  always  spent 
her  money  in  the  town,  every  penny  of  it. 


CHARITY   GONE.  197 

Ay,  and  just  beginning  to  get  about  again. 
Every  sympathetic  tradesman  who  bent  to 
customers  across  his  counter  under  the  bur- 
den of  a  large  family  repeated  this  story. 
Yet  scarcely  had  the  report  quickened  into 
healthy  circulation,  when  the  great  carriage 
with  the  fat  horses  went  rolling  down  the 
wondering  street.  Upon  a  cushion  higher 
than  usual  sat  the  little  cripple;  and  if  her 
cheek  was  pale,  her  head  was  more  than  ever 
erect. 

When  Charity  disappeared  beyond  the 
horizon,  a  smarting  pride  aroused  Miss 
Graham's  spirit.  Through  the  dull  aching 
of  her  loss  came  a  sharp  pang  as  she  thought 
of  Mrs.  Mortimer.  That  the  event  had 
justified  the  warning  given  by  that  excel- 
lent woman  made  no  difference  at  all. 
Unconsciously  that  proud  little  heart  har- 
boured the  more  resentment.  Since  Irene's 
death  she  had  suffered  no  blow  like  this, 
and  she  summoned  all  her  fortitude  to  show 
a  brave  face  to  the  world.  Her  sorrow  was 
deep,  —  so  much  the  deeper  must  it  be 
buried.      She  rang  for  her  hot  water,   and 


198  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

dressed  at  once.  And  she  wrapped  Charity's 
departure  in  a  tissue  so  fine  that  it  cannot 
be  deemed  a  fib. 

"Put  Miss  Charity's  room  tidy,"  she  said 
to  the  maid  who  was  lielping  her  downstairs. 
"  Then  lock  the  door  and  bring  me  the  key. 
She  may  be  away  some  time,  and  nothing 
shall  be  touched  until  she  comes  back." 

"We  must  take  great  care  of  Miss  Char- 
ity's myrtle,  John,  this  winter,"  she  told 
Jan  Sprake  when  next  he  wheeled  her  chair 
round  the  garden.  "  I  don't  know  what  she 
will  say  if  anything  happens  to  it  whilst 
she  is  away." 

Such  things  repeated  mystified  the  world. 
Outwardly  she  triumphed  over  herself,  but 
in  secret  her  courage  failed.  She  knew  that 
Charity  would  never  come  back.  She  was 
angry  and  regretful  by  turns,  because  the  girl 
had  not  taken  the  envelope.  The  evenings 
began  to  get  chilly.  There  was  no  music 
in  the  house,  and  she  had  not  the  heart  to 
read.  She  was  nervous,  and  wrote  to  Polti- 
more-Briggs  to  hurry  on  the  settlement. 

Within  a  week  Mrs.  Mortimer's  curiosity 


CHARITY   GONE.  199 

got  the  better  of  her  pique.  There  was 
absolutely  no  reliable  information,  for 
Graham  told  nothing,  and  she  was  not  even 
certain  that  the  engagement  was  broken  off. 
After  all,  one  must  not  cherish  anger,  and 
the  mortification  of  pride  is  a  Christian 
virtue.  So  she  magnanimously  marched 
over  to  Babblecombe  at  the  head  of  her 
daughters,  and  was  quite  cordially  received. 

"I  could  not  help  coming,  dear  Miss 
Graham,"  she  acknowledged  with  perfect 
truth,  "when  I  heard  you  were  alone.  So 
I  came  early,  to  have  a  long  afternoon. 
And  the  girls  wanted  to  ask,  if  it  would  not 
be  too  much  trouble,  if  the  tennis  net  might 
be  put  up.  They  can  mark  out  the  court 
themselves  quite  easily." 

It  would  be  no  trouble  whatever.  Miss 
Graham  assured  them.  So  the  maid  ran, 
the  young  man  who  worked  in  the  garden 
helped,  Jan  Sprake  muttered  and  perspired, 
and  the  thing  was  done. 

"  So  Charity  has  gone  away,  they  tell 
me,"  said  Mrs.  Mortimer,  settling  down  to 
be  sympathetic. 


200  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"Oh,  yes,"  chirped  Miss  Graham,  and 
she  did  not  wince. 

"  But  not  for  long,  I  suppose .-' "  The 
sweetness  of  Mrs.  Mortimer  became  quite 
insinuating. 

"  It  is  not  quite  decided  how  long  she 
will  stay." 

"  You  must  miss  her  very  much .''  " 

"Yes." 

The  plucky  little  woman  could  not  hide 
it  all.  In  spite  of  herself  the  sadness 
would  betray  itself  in  her  voice. 

"Has  she  gone  a  long  distance.-'"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Mortimer,  greatly  encouraged. 

Miss  Graham  thought  a  moment  before 
replying.  Then  she  looked  Mrs.  Mortimer 
quite  frankly  in  the  face. 

"  I  am  not  quite  sure  whether  —  I  mean, 
I  have  some  little  delicacy  in  talking  about 
it  —  for  the  present,  that  is.  It  was  her 
own  private  affair,  and  Charity  decided  for 
herself.  There  are  occasions  in  life  when 
one  must  decide  for  oneself.  And  this  was 
quite  sudden.  She  got  a  letter  one  day,  and 
went  the  next.     She  followed  the  dictates 


CHARITY   GONE.  201 

of  her  conscience,  and  I  dared  not  influence 
her  in  the  matter.  But  I  do  not  think  I 
must  talk  about  it  —  just  for  the  present." 

"  I  would  not  hear  a  word  for  the  world, 
—  not  for  the  whole  world,"  cried  the  ago- 
nised Mrs.  Mortimer,  dramatically,  putting 
her  fingers  to  her  ears  to  deliver  Miss 
Graham  from  temptation.  "  What  can  have 
happened.'*"  she  was  thinking  to  herself. 
A  brilliant  thought  illuminated  her  brain. 

Four-and-twenty  hours  later  the  Prentice 
stories  were  laughed  to  scorn  in  Babble- 
mouth,  and  it  was  freely  asserted  that  Miss 
Chance  had  received  a  mysterious  commu- 
nication from  her  natural  friends. 

But  now  the  disinterested  character  of 
Mrs.  Mortimer's  visit  was  to  be  revealed. 

"  However,  it  was  not  to  ask  questions 
that  I  came,"  she  went  on,  hiding  her  dis- 
appointment in  an  artificial  smile.  "When 
I  heard  you  were  alone,  I  spoke  to  the  Rec- 
tor at  once.  I  said  —  perhaps  dear  Miss 
Graham  would  like  Theodosia  to  be  with 
her  for  a  while,  to  be  company  for  her,  and 
to   read   to    her,   and    so   on.      And  if  you 


202  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

would,  dear  Miss  Graham,  I  would  do  my 
best  to  spare  her,  even  if  it  were  all  the 
winter.  I  am  sure  she  would  be  only  too 
glad  to  do  anything  for  your  comfort." 

A  scarcely  perceptible  shudder  shook  that 
sensitive  little  creature.  She  did  not  accept 
the  loan  of  Theodosia,  but  her  thanks  were 
profuse.  She  was  not  strong  enough  at 
present  to  entertain  a  visitor.  It  would  be 
too  dull  for  the  poor  girl  —  perhaps,  a  little 
later  —  she  excused  herself. 

The  dear  girls  came  in  glowing  like 
tulips.  They  were  hot,  and  filled  the  room. 
They  were  breathless,  and  consumed  all  the 
air.  Their  superabundant  health  jarred 
upon  Miss  Graham's  sensibilities.  Yet 
they  did  nothing  amiss,  and  said  nothing 
whatever.  She  could  not  help  comparing 
them  with  Charity.  Charity  was  as  strong 
as  they,  yet  fifty  Charities  could  not  have 
been  so  obtrusive. 

"Perhaps  Miss  Graham  will  allow  you  to 
come  again,"  suggested  their  mother  when 
they  rose  to  depart. 

They  came  again.     In  a  little  while  they 


CHARITY   GONE.  203 

came  daily,  and  brought  their  friends. 
They  went  on  playing,  right  into  the  win- 
ter, when  the  grass  was  wet  and  slippery, 
and  they  trampled  down  the  Christmas 
roses  searching  for  the  balls.  The  lawn 
got  bald  in  patches.  "  So  bare  as  the  back 
o'  your  han',''  said  Jan  Sprake. 

And  the  little  cripple,  with  whom  none 
before  had  ever  dared  to  take  a  liberty, 
looked  on  in  silence.  She  did  not  care 
about  anything  now  Charity  was  gone. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 


THE    SETTLEMENT. 


Thus  the  months  passed  until  spring  came, 
and  again  the  meadows  of  the  coombe  were 
studded  with  daffodils.  But  there  was  no 
longer  any  glory  in  their  gold,  and  Miss 
Graham  scarcely  turned  her  head  to  look  at 
them.  A  fear  as  dark  as  winter  clouded  all 
her  thoughts  and  chilled  her  heart.  She 
dreaded  to  hear  that  Charity  had  married 
Prentice;  for  dearly  still  she  loved  the  girl, 
and  her  dislike  to  this  man  —  to  whom  she 
had  never  spoken  —  was  instinctive  and 
deeper  than  prejudice.  It  worried  her,  too, 
that  Poltimore-Briggs,  being  engrossed  in 
public  business,  found  no  time  to  attend  to 
her  request  about  the  settlement.  This 
neglect  irritated  her  the  more  since  he  had 
almost  a  personal  interest  in  the  matter.     A 


THE   SETTLEMENT.  205 

gentleman,  she  told  herself  in  her  proud 
way,  under  such  circumstances,  would  not 
lose  a  moment.  She  began  to  suspect  him 
of  purposely  putting  it  off.  Mistrust  set- 
tled like  a  dust  in  the  mansion  of  her  mind, 
and  to  know  it  there  hurt  her  self-respect. 
She  worried  herself  with  thoughts  of  taking 
the  matter  into  her  own  hands  by  altering 
her  will,  and  procrastinated  through  fear 
of  hurting  the  feelings  of  Poltimore-Briggs. 
And  she  had  no  one  to  share  the  burden 
of  this  anxiety,  for  Graham  had  gone 
away. 

The  dread  haunted  her  that  "something 
would  happen  "  before  her  wishes  were  ful- 
filled. At  last  she  wrote  to  Poltimore- 
Briggs,  telling  him  to  take  no  further 
trouble.  She  had  changed  her  mind,  she 
said,  and  determined  to  leave  not  only  the 
money  as  arranged,  but  the  Babblecombe 
estate  to  Charity.  It  would  not  be  long  to 
wait. 

He  replied  in  haste  that  the  business  was 
already  put  in  hand,  and  urging  her  to  do 
nothins:  until  she  had  seen  him.     He  would 


2o6  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

come  to  Babblccombe  in  a  few  days,  he 
promised.  But  weeks  passed,  and  her 
wishes  were  still  neglected.  The  early 
summer  came,  and  she  had  heard  nothing 
further. 

One  afternoon  in  June  she  was  sitting 
out  of  the  sun  in  the  old  corner  by  the 
yew-hedge.  The  Mortimers  were  not  there 
that  day.  It  was  quiet,  and  she  was  able 
to  think.  The  time  for  the  garden  party 
drew  close  upon  her,  and  she  was  wonder- 
ing what  she  would  do.  Every  year  since 
she  came  to  Babblecombe  had  this  great 
function  taken  place  without  a  break.  But 
now  she  was  weighing  inclination  against 
duty.  She  did  not  feel  fit  for  it.  She 
could  not  bear  the  fatigue.  Yet  responsi- 
bilities rest  upon  wealth  and  position,  and 
she  recognised  her  obligation  to  the  neigh- 
bourhood. 

Strangers  would  inquire  about  Charity 
—  and  what  was  she  to  tell  them.?  And  if 
she  did  not  have  it,  the  Babblemouth  people 
would  talk,  and  say  she  moped  because  the 
girl  was  gone.     A  dozen  times  she  changed 


THE   SETTLEMENT.  207 

her  mind,  and  still  came  no  nearer  to  a  deci- 
sion. Then  her  meditations  were  disturbed. 
The  gate  fell  to  behind  an  approaching 
visitor,  and  Poltimore-Briggs  walked  up 
the  path. 

She  was  aware  of  something  unusual  in 
his  appearance.  He  had  walked  from 
Babblemouth,  and  his  boots  were  white 
with  the  dust  of  the  summer  road.  That 
in  itself  was  strange.  For.  years  she  had 
not  known  him  go  so  far  on  foot.  And  his 
face  looked  altered.  It  was  thinner  than 
formerly,  and  quite  pale  and  drawn  from 
anxiety  and  overwork.  At  once  her  doubts 
were  changed  to  sympathy.  He  had  man- 
aged everything  so  well  for  years,  and  now, 
when  he  was  overwhelmed  with  cares,  her 
thoughts  had  been  ungenerous  and  unjust. 
She  welcomed  him  warmly.  For  a  moment 
she  held  his  hand  quite  affectionately,  then 
pointed  abruptly  to  the  seat  by  her  side. 

"  I  have  been  hoping  to  see  you,  Henry, 
for  a  long  time,"  she  said.  "And  now  I 
cannot  help  feeling  how  kind  it  is  of  you 
to  come." 


2o8  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

He  sat  down  slowly,  in  obedience  to  her 
gesture.  With  one  elbow  upon  his  knee  he 
leaned  forward,  and,  resting  his  forehead 
upon  his  hand,  looked  down  at  the  yellow 
gravel. 

"I  know,  Helen.  I  have  been  remiss,  I 
know,"  he  stammered  uneasily.  "But  I 
haven't  been  able  to  call  my  soul  my  own. 
Not  for  years,  ■ — ■  I  mean  for  months,  — 
since  I  undertook  this  Parliamentary  busi- 
ness. Otherwise  your  wishes  would  have 
received  my  first  attention  —  as  they  always 
did,  Helen  —  " 

"Yes,  yes.  I  don't  know  how  I  should 
have  managed,"  she  said  warmly,  and  with 
real  gratitude.  Her  quick  eye  observed 
him  attentively.  His  white  waistcoat, 
always  so  spotless,  was  soiled  with  the 
dust,  and  there  was  a  black  mark  from  the 
rubbing  of  the  long  gold  chain.  "He 
knows  he  will  lose  the  election,"  she 
thought,  "and  that  is  a  blow  to  his  pride." 
At  the  sight  of  his  dejection  a  dead  kind- 
ness revived,  —  a  tenderness  of  long  ago, 
when  a  lover,  spic  and  span,  used  to  steal 


THE   SETTLEMENT.  209 

to  the  old  house  in  Bath,  at  the  hour  when 
her  father  was  from  home.  It  seemed  only 
yesterday.  She  pitied  him.  Life  is  so 
little,  yet  disappointment  goes  so  deep. 
All  that  she  understood,  as  in  mute 
sympathy  she  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
shoulder. 

"And  you  must  not  altogether  blame 
me,"  he  went  on  quickly,  in  self-defence. 
"These  lawyers  are  so  dilatory.  But  I 
have  looked  over  the  deed  at  last.  It  will 
be  ready  to  sign  in  a  few  days.  I  quite 
agree  that  you  could  do  no  less.  I  have 
made  it  that  should  she  die  without  issue 
the  money  will  come  back  to  Graham,  or 
his  children  if  he  have  any." 

"How  wonderfully  you  think  of  every- 
thing! "  she  cried  in  admiration.  And  this 
was  the  man  whom  she  had  suspected. 

"  But  I  came  over  to  speak  about  some- 
thing else.  I  —  I  want  you  to  do  me  a 
favour,  Helen." 

"Of  course.  Of  course."  In  her  con- 
trition she  was  quite  eager  to  grant  him 
his  request  unheard. 

14 


2IO  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

He  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair.  He 
was  so  nervous  that  his  hand  shook  like  a 
drunkard's,  and  he  kept  swallowing  as  if 
something  choked  his  utterance.  Then, 
reassured  by  the  readiness  of  her  consent, 
he  found  his  tongue  at  last. 

"Some  years  ago  I  made  a  very  bad  in- 
vestment. A  speculation,  in  fact,  which 
proved  disastrous.  Anybody  might  have 
been  deceived.  And  since  then  I  have 
been  —  eh  —  hampered  —  at  times  sorely 
hampered  for  —  eh  —  ready  money.  And 
we  have  lived  extravagantly,  I  own  that. 
Mrs.  Poltimore-Briggs  and  myself  have 
never  —  well,  have  never  got  on.  Every- 
thing would  have  been  different  if  poor 
Irene  had  lived." 

He  stopped  and  sighed.  Deep  in  his 
heart,  then,  was  still  the  recollection  of 
Irene.  No  misfortune  could  have  recom- 
mended him  to  the  pity  of  the  little  cripple 
like  this  one  touch  of  sentiment. 

"And  you  want  money,  Henry .^"  she 
cried  quite  cheerfully. 

A   gleam   of    eager   expectation    flashed 


THE   SETTLEMENT.  211 

across  his  face.  He  drew  a  long  breath, 
and  sat  upright  as  if  in  relief  from  a  heavy 
burden.  He  became  more  himself,  and 
regained  something  of  the  large  manner  she 
had  always  disliked  so  much. 

"The  fact  is,  a  man  is  pressing  me  at 
a  very  inconvenient  moment.  There  is 
political  animus  without  question.  But 
that  makes  it  the  more  incumbent  to  meet 
him  without  delay.  I  should  prefer,  if 
possible,  not  to  postpone  payment  a  day.  • 
Of  course,  in  a  week  or  so,  when  rents 
come  in,  and  so  on,  it  would  be  easy  enough. 
But  I  will  admit  to  you,  Helen,  candidly 
admit  to  you,  my  self-esteem  —  my  —  my 
pride  will  not  permit  me  to  ask  a  favour. 
If  you  could  lend  me  a  couple  of  hundred 
pounds, — say  until  the  beginning  of  next 
month,  when  I  pay  you  your  dividends,  you 
would  do  me  a  great  service.  I  should  be 
really  grateful. " 

His  momentary  elation  had  subsided,  and 
he  leaned  forward  in  anxiety  for  her  reply. 

Was  that  all,  she  thought,  and  felt  quite 
glad  to  be  of  use.  Yet  to  a  vain  man  it 
must  be  hard  indeed  to  ask. 


212  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"Of  course,  there  is  no  difficulty  about 
that.  I  should  have  had  to  get  you  to  take 
care  of  it,  so  it  is  quite  the  same  thing," 
she  told  him,  laughing  to  make  light  of  his 
needless  distress. 

"  Could  I  have  it  before  the  bank  closes, 
Helen?" 

Leaning  upon  her  ebony  stick,  she  rose. 
"No.  Don't  move.  I  can  go  very  well. 
Stay  here  in  the  cool  and  rest.  I  will  go 
in  and  write  you  a  cheque." 

He  watched  her  slowly  pass  along  the 
path,  until  by  the  steps  into  the  drawing- 
room  she  stopped  to  rest.  Then  she  turned 
towards  him  and  asked,  "Are  you  sure  that 
will  be  enough  }  " 

He  hesitated  a  moment. 

"Yes,  quite  enough,"  he  answered 
hoarsely. 

The  time  was  endless  until  her  return, 
and  he  kept  glancing  at  the  open  door. 
His  dejection  had  vanished.  He  had  taken 
heart  at  her  readiness  to  assist  him.  His 
head  was  raised,  alert  and  listening  for  the 
slightest  sound;  but  in  his  uncontrollable 
impatience  he  bit  his  nails  to  the  quick. 


THE   SETTLEMENT.  213 

At  last  she  came. 

The  serenity  of  human  kindness  smiled 
upon  her  face  as  she  beckoned  to  him 
before  cautiously  descending  the  step. 
She  had  enclosed  the  cheque  in  an  envelope. 
That  looked  so  much  less  like  lending 
money.  She  carelessly  handed  it  to  him 
between  her  long  thin  fingers. 

"Come,  I  must  not  keep  you." 

Her  tone  was  dictatorial,  as  it  sometimes 
used  to  be  with  Charity.  She  did  not  give 
him  time  to  speak,  but,  taking  his  arm, 
turned  towards  the  entrance  gates. 

"  I  have  handed  over  my  hoard ;  so  now, 
until  you  bring  me  more,  I  shall  be  penni- 
less," she  laughed  gaily.  Then  her  voice 
sank  into  a  whisper,  tender  and  confiden- 
tial. "  But  make  what  use  you  like  of  it. 
What  you  have  told  me  quite  troubles  me, 
Henry.  It  makes  me  feel  that  things  have 
not  been  just.  It  is  wrong,  of  course,  but 
the  very  poor  do  not  appeal  to  me  like 
people  who  have  been  affluent  and  become 
pinched.  That  seems  so  painful  —  to  be 
straitened    and    pinched.       I    could    never 


214  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

have  lived  if  I  had  been  driven  to  worry 
about  pennies.  But  there  is  nothing  to 
save  for  now.  Graham  will  have  plenty. 
Charity  you  have  seen  to.  There  is  nothing 
wanting  —  that  money  can  supply.  And 
my  little  superfluity,  I  suppose,  may  make 
all  the  difference  to  you.-*  " 

They  were  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  and 
she  stopped,  waiting  for  an  answer  to  her 
inquiry. 

But  her  kindness  touched  him.  He 
looked  quite  dazed,  and  could  not  speak. 

"Will  not  that  make  it  right.?  At  least, 
whilst  I  am  here.  And  then  Graham  is 
goodness  itself." 

She  spoke  so  cheerfully,  making  the  best 
of  it  to  comfort  a  sad  heart,  that  he  made  an 
effort  to  cover  his  confusion. 

"  God  bless  you,  Helen.  God  bless  you," 
he  stammered  with  emotion. 

She  held  out  her  hand  quickly  to  prevent 
his  thanks. 

"Good-bye." 

"Good-bye." 

He  was  so  deadly  white,  and  stared  at  her 


THE   SETTLEMENT.  215 

so  strangely  that  she  was  filled  with  alarm. 
He  staggered  as  he  turned  towards  the  gate. 

Between  the  stable-yard  and  the  Babble- 
mouth  road  is  a  low  stone  wall,  and  above 
it  a  slanting  laurel  hedge.  There,  a  short 
distance  away,  Jan  Sprake  was  trimming 
back  pretentious  shoots  which  pressed  be- 
fore their  fellows. 

"You  are  not  well.  You  ought  not  to 
walk  in  the  sun.  Let  me  have  you  driven," 
she  urged  anxiously. 

He  shook  his  head  in  refusal.  "I  —  I 
did  not  wish  my  visit  known,"  was  all  he 
said.  Then  he  waved  his  hand  to  her  and 
was  gone. 

Jan  Sprake  peered  down  at  him  inquisi- 
tively as  he  passed  down  the  road. 

Beside  the  laurel  hedge  he  stopped, 
opened  the  envelope  Miss  Graham  had 
given  him,  and  drew  out  "a  long  leaf  o' 
paper  like."  He  was  so  close  that  Jan 
could  have  read  the  wording  himself,  if  he 
"had  but  a-bin  a  bit  of  a  scholard. "  His 
hand  shook  like  an  ague.  The  man  cried 
like  the  rain. 


2i6  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"  Poor  Helen  !     Poor  little  Helen !  " 

Those  were  the  words  he  muttered,  Jan 
could  take  his  Bible  oath  of  it,  any  day  of 
the  week.  Then  of  a  sudden  he  tore  the 
paper  into  shreds,  and  threw  them  fluttering 
upon  the  road-side.  For  many  a  summer 
day  the  tiny  pink  scraps  lay  there  amongst 
the  dusty  grass  in  silent  testimony  to  the 
truth  of  Jan  Sprake's  statement.  And 
Poltimore-Briggs  did  not  go  straight  home 
to  Babblemouth.  He  turned  off  where 
a  lane  leads  to  the  pathway  over  the 
cliff.  Jan  Sprake  stood  among  the 
laurels  and,  wondering,  watched  him  out 
of  sight. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  following  day 
there  rustled  around  Babblemouth  a  rumour 
so  ridiculous  that  no  one  with  any  sense  in 
his  head  could  find  patience  to  listen  to  it. 
Nevertheless,  being  constantly  repeated,  it 
grew  and  grew.  It  was  said  that  bailiffs 
had  been  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Poltimore- 
Briggs  for  a  week  past,  and  a  sheriff's  ofificer 
was  aboard  the  yacht. 

Certainly  this  had  been  kept  marvellously 


THE   SETTLEMENT.  217 

quietj  but  things  will  leak  out  at  last. 
Servants  will  talk.  A  leading  tradesman 
of  the  town  first  got  wind  of  it,  and  with- 
out delay  strolled  mysteriously  down  to 
the  house  to  present  his  little  account. 
Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs  was  not  in.  The  man 
would  wait.  Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs  was 
away  from  home. 

The  matter  was  of  particular  importance, 
and  could  Mrs.  Poltimore-Briggs  grant  the 
favour  of  Mr.  Poltimore  Briggs's  present 
address .''  But  Mr.  Poltimore-Briggs  had 
been  called  unexpectedly  to  London,  and 
his  address  was  uncertain. 

Before  night  the  little  town  was  all  astir. 
It  became  known  to  all  the  world  that 
Poltimore-Briggs,  having  laid  hands  on 
every  penny  he  could  get  hold  of,  had 
absconded,  it  was  believed,  to  Spain.  And 
not  an  hour  too  soon.  There  was  vague 
talk  of  money  obtained  by  fraudulent  repre- 
sentations, and  it  was  no  secret  that  a  war- 
rant had  been  issued  for  his  apprehension. 
The  place  was  in  a  ferment.  Political 
opponents     had     always    anticipated     that 


2i8  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

something  of  the  sort  must  happen  one  of 
these  days.  Supporters,  who  for  the  most 
part  were  also  creditors,  declared  that  he 
was  the  last  man  upon  earth  of  whom  any 
one  would  have  thought  it.  There  were 
bets  at  "The  George  "  as  to  how  soon  he 
would  be  taken. 

Only  one  "person  remained  in  ignorance 
of  these  proceedings.  Little  Miss  Graham, 
happy  in  the  belief  that  she  had  helped  him 
over  his  difficulty,  was  the  last  to  hear. 
The  thing  was  altogether  so  unexpected 
and  astounding  that  for  the  moment  Mrs. 
Mortimer  was  mute. 


CHAPTER   XV, 

AS    NURSERV    GOVERNESS. 

A  LONG  room  covered  from  floor  to  ceiling 
with  a  yellow,  varnished,  washable  paper, 
except  in  one  corner,  where  delinquent 
finger-nails  had  picked  bare  patches  before 
Charity  came.  How  the  wall  glistened 
behind  the  solitary  gas-jet  jutting  out 
above  the  mantelpiece !  The  flame  was 
naked,  the  children  having  long  ago  smashed 
the  globe,  which  had  not  been  replaced. 
And  it  had  to  be  kept  low,  being  liable  to 
flare  and  run  wild  when  turned  up.  But 
everything  in  the  place  was  bare,  except 
the  spiritless  little  fire  fast  sinking  to  dust 
and  ashes  behind  the  bars  of  an  iron  fire- 
guard. Maria,  the  housemaid,  had  for- 
gotten to  bring  up  more  coal. 


220  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

It  was  late  at  night.  The  children  were 
long  ago  in  bed  and  asleeii,  and  Charity  had 
been  sitting  up  at  work.  Her  supper,  sent 
upstairs  on  a  tray,  remained  untouched  upon 
the  little  ink-stained  table  by  her  side,  just 
where  Maria  had  banged  it  down  some 
hours  before,  when  she  flounced  in  and 
flounced  out,  slamming  the  door  behind  her 
as  a  protest  against  waiting  upon  anybody 
who  got  no  more  wages  than  herself.  That 
was  the  knell  of  parting  day.  Nobody  ever 
came  near  Charity  after  that. 

Dispirited  and  exhausted,  she  leaned  back 
in  her  chair.  The  light  glared  upon  her 
face.  From  the  opposite  wall  a  map  of  the 
world  in  hemispheres  stared  down  at  her, 
shining  and  binocular.  She  lifted  a  pile  of 
papers  from  her  lap  and  placed  them  on  the 
table. 

"How  poor  it  all  is!"  she  cried,  and 
burst  into  tears. 

The  ugliness  of  the  place  was  as  remote 
from  her  mind  as  the  antipodes.  It  was  the 
last  moan  of  a  struggling  swimmer  who, 
overcome  with   fatigue,   consents   to    sink. 


AS   NURSERY   GOVERNESS.    221 

The  whole  course  of  her  miserable  exist- 
ence since  she  entered  the  service  of  Mrs. 
Cornelius  Porter  passed  through  her  mind. 

She  had  now  been  a  nursery  governess  for 
months,  and  was  accustomed  to  her  duties. 
At  first,  to  her  inexperience,  the  thing  was 
hopeless.  But  from  the  day  of  her  arrival 
she  grappled  with  her  difficulties  with  the 
grim  fierceness  of  despair.  It  seemed  to 
her  that  if  she  failed  to  fill  that  place  there 
was  no  other  for  her  in  the  world.  And  a 
quite  extravagant  success  rewarded  her 
efforts.  Before  the  second  week  was  out 
Mrs.  Cornelius  Porter,  a  middle-aged 
matron,  well  nourished,  and  of  the  finest 
Britannia-metal,  intimated  to  Miss  Chance 
that  with  a  little  closer  attention  to  the 
darning  she  was  likely  to  give  every 
satisfaction. 

They  were  a  prosaic  race,  these  Porters, 
and  their  days  were  all  alike. 

They  breakfasted  at  half-past  seven  in 
order  that  Mr.  Porter  might  catch  a  train. 
Upon  this  point  Mrs.  Porter  waxed  senti- 
mental to  the  verge  of  poetry.      If  the  chil- 


222  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

dren  were  not  there,  they  would  never  see 
their  father,  and  that  was  so  sad.  Daily 
at  this  hour,  expectant  and  somewhat  over- 
awed, they  were  ranged  around  the  table. 
At  a  quarter  before  eight  Mr.  Porter  ap- 
peared, late,  hurried,  and  inclined  to  be 
irritable.  He  glanced  hastily  at  the  great 
gilt  timepiece  upon  the  mantel-shelf. 

"Eight  minutes  and  a  half,"  he  muttered 
morosely,  "if  the  clock  is  right." 

"The  clock  is  always  right,"  retorted  his 
wife;  and  it  was  a  dogma  for  which  she 
would  have  died. 

"Always.?" 

"Always!" 

He  swallowed  his  boiling  coffee,  bolted 
his  roll,  flashed  across  the  little  domestic 
heaven  like  a  meteor,  and  was  gone. 

A  nervous,  sallow  little  man,  with  a  long 
black  beard,  who  returned  at  eight  in  the 
evening.  That  was  all  Charity  knew,  for 
only  once  had  she  been  privileged  to  speak 
to  him. 

"  You  will  take  supper  with  us  to-night, 
Miss  Chance,"  exclaimed  Mrs.   Porter,   on 


AS   NURSERY   GOVERNESS.    223 

the  afternoon  of  Charity's  arrival,  "and  see 
Mr.  Porter.  Afterwards,  perhaps  you  will 
play  us  something.  We  are  both  anxious 
about  the  children's  music.  You  noticed 
music  essential,  I  have  no  doubt.  Oh !  and 
I  hope  you  don't  mind  making  your  own 
bed.  Any  other  little  thing  I  will  mention 
as  it  arises." 

The  girl  was  nervous  and  uneasy,  and 
the  ordeal  of  playing  haunted  her  through 
a  silent,  melancholy  meal.  It  was  to  be  a 
test  of  her  ability,  and,  feeling  it  to  be  such, 
when  the  time  came  she  played  with  care. 
The  familiar  sonata  was  like  company  to 
her  in  the  strange  place,  but  she  rose  from 
the  piano  dissatisfied  and  in  doubt. 

"Now,  do  you  really  like  classical  music, 
Miss  Chance .-'"  asked  Mr.  Porter,  in  that 
confidential  tone  which  invites  and  deserves 
a  candid  reply. 

Charity  pledged  her  word  to  it. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  reflected.  "I 
like  something  a  little  gay.  What 's  the 
use  of  music,  except  to  take  you  out  of  your- 
self after  a  day's  work,  and  'liven  you  up  a 


224  CHARITY    CHANCE. 

bit?  Now,  classical  music  always  makes 
me  feel  unwell." 

"  We  have  a  little  music  on  Sunday  after- 
noons, Miss  Chance,"  put  in  Mrs.  Porter, 
in  fulfilment  of  her  promise  to  mention 
little  things  that  might  arise.  "Mr.  Porter 
is  at  home,  and  it  is  nice  for  the  cliildren 
to  come  down.  Now  you  would  like  to  go 
upstairs." 

Charity  did  not  see  much  of  Mr.  Porter 
on  those  occasions.  She  played  hymn 
tunes  by  the  hour,  whilst  the  children 
sang.  But  the  head  of  the  house,  hidden 
in  a  silk  handkerchief,  reposed  on  a  red 
sofa-cushion  and  restfully  slept. 

Charity  had  never  seen  people  like  these. 
Sometimes  their  destitution  in  the  percep- 
tion of  everything  that  made  life  beautiful 
to  her  was  more  pitiful  than  the  sight  of 
poverty.  The  atmosphere  of  the  house 
oppressed  her  like  a  nightmare.  The  chil- 
dren overwhelmed  her  with  a  weight  of  care 
under  which  she  could  scarcely  breathe. 
They  broke  everything.  They  hurt  them- 
selves and  each  other.     They  quarrelled  and 


AS   NURSERY   GOVERNESS.    225 

cried.  They  were  more  mischievous  than 
goblins  without  the  mirth.  And  when  she 
had  struggled  with  all  her  might,  the  good- 
will of  Mrs.  Porter  came  like  a  last  straw 
added  to  her  load. 

With  the  desire  to  be  kind,  that  most  re- 
spectable matron  became  inquisitive. 

"And  how  many  years  did  you  live  with 
Miss  Graham.''  "  "And  where  is  your  own 
home,  Miss  Chance.-*"  were  amongst  the 
friendly  inquiries  with  which  poor  Charity 
was  plied. 

For  some  time  the  discomforts  of  her  new 
position  had  no  power  to  wound  her  deeply. 
She  hardened  herself  against  everything 
with  the  great  thought  that  Prentice  had 
promised  to  write.  As  the  days  passed  and 
nothing  came,  she  became  more  wildly 
expectant.  She  studied  the  table  of  "in- 
ward mails,"  and  listened  for  the  postman's 
knock.  Surely  it  would  come  now.  Other 
letters  delivered  at  Babblecombe  were  sent 
on,  but  the  one  so  madly  desired  was  not 
amongst  them.  She  became  a  prey  to  all 
the  fears  and  doubts  that  love  can  conjure 
IS 


226  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

out  of  longing  and  disappointment.  He 
had  changed  towards  her.  Found  out  her 
story  and  changed  before  she  went  to  him. 
How  else  should  one  so  emotional,  so  sen- 
sitive to  the  slightest  word,  remain  unmoved 
by  her  deep  humiliation.-'  She  might  write 
to  him  under  cover  to  Messrs.  Pickering 
and  Co.,  his  publishers.  She  fetched  his 
book  to  find  the  address  upon  the  title-page. 
Then  she  grew  proud  again.  He  had 
parted  from  her  with  no  word  of  love  or 
help  or  kindness.  He  was  angry  with  her 
boldness  in  rushing  to  him  so  eagerly,  and 
disgust  upon  the  instant  changed  so  sensi- 
tive a  man.  Or  perhaps  prudence  had  made 
him  silent.  He  was  poor  —  had  not  means 
to  marry;  and  in  a  calmer  moment  became 
wise.  With  that  thought  again  she  loved 
him  tenderly.  He  would  never  change, 
and  her  heart  was  his  through  all  eternity. 

At  last  the  hope  of  hearing  from  him 
waned.  Then  in  the  after-supper  solitude 
she  fell  to  taking  up  the  threads  of  her  old 
life.  But  the  strands  were  all  ravelled  and 
tangled.      Nothing  remained  unbroken  but 


AS   NURSERY   GOVERNESS.    227 

the  slender  story  she  had  tried  to  weave  in 
the  leisure  of  her  girlish  happiness,  and 
that  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  great  black 
trunk,  untouched  by  fate  or  fortune.  She 
thought  of  it,  and  brought  it  to  the  light. 

Now  she  read  with  other  eyes,  and  saw 
with  deeper  insight.  What  she  had  written 
was  but  idle  fancy-work,  beside  the  gorgeous 
fabric  woven  in  the  loom  of  human  life.  It 
was  a  village  tragedy,  and  the  story  held 
and  fascinated  her  as  at  first.  But  when 
she  wrote  she  had  not  understood.  Passion 
and  shame  had  come, —  crushing  self-abase- 
ment had  fallen  upon  her  since  then.  A 
hurricane  had  swept  away  the  rose-clad 
walls  that  sheltered  whilst  they  shut  her  in 
from  the  world.  And  she  stood  alone  — 
nothing,  unless  she  could  be  something  of 
herself.  A  hope,  familiar  of  old  in  the 
dappled  sunlight  of  her  hill-side  bower, 
revived  within  her.  She  would  make  some- 
thing of  that  story.  In  growing  excitement 
she  rose  and  paced  the  narrow  little  school- 
room. Her  brain  was  in  a  ferment,  her 
soul   on    fire.     Yes.     She,    the    nameless, 


228  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

base-born  foundling,  would  win  herself  a 
name. 

Not  a  moment  must  be  lost.  She  drew 
a  chair  to  the  table  and  sat  down  before  the 
sheets,  all  faultlessly  copied  in  the  days  when 
time  was  plentiful  and  she  had  little  to  do. 

The  opening  chapter  was  poor,  indeed. 
But  she  would  improve  that.  Her  fingers 
burned  to  begin  at  once.  She  fetched  the 
ink,  and  pen  in  hand  set  to  work  to  read. 
All  night  through  she  went  on,  scoring, 
interlining,  and  blotting  out  until  only  here 
and  there  the  girlish  penmanship,  like  the 
pale  face  of  a  prisoner  condemned  to  death, 
peered  through  the  prison  bars  of  her  ruth- 
less alterations. 

She  laid  aside  the  pen  and  burst  into 
tears  to  see  what  she  had  done.  So  this, 
like  all  the  rest,  was  nothing.  It  would 
be  far  easier  to  begin  afresh.  With  a 
heavy  heart  she  put  it  all  away  until  another 
night.  But  from  that  time  forth,  the  expec- 
tation of  these  silent  hours  triumphed  over 
the  drudgery  of  the  day,  and  she  was  never 
lonely  and  never  without  hope. 


AS  NURSERY   GOVERNESS.    229 

She  worked  with  such  eagerness  that  the 
story  grew  apace.  It  held  her  imagination 
with  a  force  so  vivid  and  irresistible  that 
her  real  life  passed  like  a  dream,  and  this 
phantasy  assumed  the  boldness  of  reality. 
It  was  interwoven  with  her  deepest  emo- 
tions. Not  that  she  confided  to  the  page 
the  secrets  of  her  heart,  but  the  romance  of 
it  glowed  with  her  passion  for  Prentice, 
and  the  tenderness  was  a  recollection  of  her 
love  for  the  little  cripple,  and  to  the  misery 
her  own  pride  and  shame  gave  bitterness. 

Last  night  with  a  thrill  of  joy  she  fin- 
ished. To-night  she  had  read  it  from  be- 
ginning to  end.  Now  she  turned  round  to 
her  dusty  little  fire,  and  in  spite  of  herself 
the  words  sobbed  up  from  the  bottom  of  her 
heart, — 

"  How  poor  it  all  is  !  " 

In  her  enthusiasm  she  had  hoped  so 
much.  It  was  to  redeem  her  from  drudgery 
—  to  make  her  worthy  of  Prentice  —  to  prove 
the  little  cripple's  kindness  not  all  in  vain. 
She  had  resolved  to  send  it  to  Prentice's 
publislicr.      But  what  avail  to  send  it  any- 


230  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

where?  No  one  would  look  at  it.  It  was 
poorer  than  before,  and  with  this  hopeless 
difference, —  that  then  she  altered  without 
hesitation,  and  now,  for  the  life  of  her,  she 
did  not  know  what  more  to  do. 

Nothing  more  could  be  done,  and  she  cast 
the  papers  from  her  in  disgust.  Suddenly 
the  door  opened;  the  portly  figure  of  Mrs. 
Cornelius  Porter,  magnificent  in  a  brocaded 
evening  wrap,  sailed  into  the  room.  "  You 
are  sitting  up  very  late.  Miss  Chance,"  she 
said  severely.  "I  saw  the  light  in  your 
window  as  we  came  in,  and  Maria  tells  me 
you  always  sit  up  half  the  night.  It  is 
quite  impossible  you  should  do  your  daily 
duty,  unless  you  retire  at  a  reasonable  hour 
and  take  proper  rest.  I  must  request  that 
by  eleven,  so  long  as  you  remain  in  this 
house,  —  not  later  than  eleven,  — your  gas 
shall  always  be  turned  out." 

There  was  an  assumption  of  superiority 
in  the  tone  which  Charity  had  never  before 
noticed.  Vulgar  the  w^oman  bad  always 
been,  but  good-natured  enough,  and  even 
kind.     Now  she  stood  there  large  and  arro- 


AS   NURSERY   GOVERNESS.    231 

gant.  The  very  glance  which  she  threw 
down  upon  the  girl  was  an  insult. 

"  I  had  something  to  do  for  myself,  and 
no  other  time  to  do  it,"  returned  Charity, 
coldly.      "But  now  it  is  finished." 

The  answer  sounded  rebellious,  and  did 
not  please  Mrs.  Porter. 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you.  Miss  Chance, " 
she  went  on,  with  the  satisfaction  which  a 
small  soul  lodged  in  a  comfortable  body 
takes  in  the  contemplation  of  its  own  virtue, 
"that  I  have  heard  a  great  deal  about  you 
to-day.  A  gentleman  who  visits  Babble- 
mouth  regularly  on  business  has  told  us  all. 
He  says  you  were  the  talk  of  the  town.  He 
even  saw  you  himself  at  Swindon  Station." 

"He  is  mistaken,"  interrupted  the  aston- 
ished girl;  "I  have  never  in  my  life  been 
to  Swindon. " 

"At  Swindon  Station,"  repeated  Mrs. 
Porter,  with  louder  firmness.  "  In  what 
class  of  company  I  should  be  ashamed  to 
say.  You  can  read  for  yourself  in  yester- 
day's paper.  Then  no  further  comment  of 
mine  will  be  required.      I  need  not  add  that 


232  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

you  can  scarcely  expect  to  retain  a  home  in 
a  respectable  family." 

With  this  withering  sarcasm  Mrs.  Cor- 
nelius Porter  left  Charity  to  her  perplexity. 
There  was  more  of  Cornelius  than  Porter  in 
the  dignity  of  her  bearing  as  she  passed  out 
of  the  schoolroom  door. 

"Swindon  Station,"  the  girl  kept  repeat- 
ing. "What  does  she  mean  by  Swindon 
Station.?" 

If  an  apparition  had  broken  in  upon  her 
midnight  vigil,  she  could  not  have  been 
more  bewildered.  An  awful  suspicion 
crossed  her  mind  that  an  evening's  enter- 
tainment must  have  resulted  in  the  inco- 
herency  of  Mrs.  Porter.  The  thought  was 
so  horrible  that  for  the  moment  Charity 
forgot  she  was  again  a  waif.  Anything  to 
get  away  from  such  people  and  such  a 
place.  In  desperation  she  got  up,  packed 
the  re-written  story,  poor  as  it  was,  and 
addressed  it. 

She  left  it  ready  upon  the  table.  In  the 
morning  she  rose  earlier  than  usual,  and 
ran  out  with  it  to  the  post.     Her  heart  sank 


AS   NURSERY   GOVERNESS.    233 

within  her  as  the  packet  fell  with  a  thud 
into  the  letter-box. 

But  Mrs.  Porter's  words,  "You  can  read 
for  yourself  in  yesterday's  paper,"  kept 
ringing  in  her  ears  as  she  hurried  back  to 
the  house.  She  would  go  into  the  dining- 
room  and  see  what  that  meant.  The  fire 
was  as  yet  unlighted.  She  was  fortunate 
enough  to  rescue  the  newspaper  from  the 
scuttle  of  Maria,  and  she  glanced  at  the 
headlines  as  she  carried  it  upstairs. 

TIic  Prentice  Case. 

Breathless  she  stopped  beside  the  landing- 
window  to  read.  It  was  a  suit  brought 
against  the  poet  by  his  wife. 

"Married!  Impossible!  A  lie  begotten 
of  envy  to  besmirch  the  reputation  of  a  man 
of  genius." 

With  this  cry  of  passionate  and  indignant 
denial,  she  threw  down  the  paper  in  angry 
refusal  to  learn  evil  of  one  she  loved.  It 
was  like  listening  to  a  tale  behind  his  back. 
Then  that  was  why  she  had  not  heard. 
How  could  he  write  under   the  weiirht    of 


234  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

this  great  trouble?  How  deeply  this  must 
cut  his  pride!  Yet  she  must  read  to  learn 
how  much  he  suffered, —  to  hear  his  refuta- 
tion and  delight  in  his  triumph. 

She  picked  up  the  newspaper  and  carried 
it  to  her  schoolroom.  There  was  still  time 
to  spare  before  the  day  began,  and  she 
glanced  down  the  long  columns,  and  eagerly 
turned  to  read.  But  as  she  went  on  she 
grew  sick  at  heart.  The  print  became  dim 
before  her  eyes.  It  was  a  tale  of  heartless 
desertion,  and  in  spite  of  herself  the 
woman's  misery  forced  itself  upon  her 
sympathies. 

"  But  they  were  unhappy,  unsuited  to 
each  other,"  she  cried,  in  contradiction  to 
herself.  "  It  was  pitiable,  but  they  were 
wise  to  part." 

Then  Prentice  came  into  the  witness-box, 
bantering  with  counsel.  He  treated  the 
matter  lightly,  and  was  witty  merely  for 
effect.  He,  who  had  talked  so  sadly  of 
human  woe,  as  if  the  weight  of  all  human- 
ity oppressed  his  soul,  went  through  the 
tragedy  of  his  own  making  grinning  like  a 


AS   NURSERY   GOVERNESS.    235 

comedian.  The  words  of  Miss  Graliam 
came  back  to  lier,  —  tliat  underneath  the 
folly  of  genius  was  soul  or  passion  or  a 
great  heart.  And  this  man  had  none  of 
these.  Her  illusion  was  dispelled.  She 
could  not  look  at  this  and  longer  believe  in 
him. 

And  for  him  she  had  forfeited  an  affec- 
tion which  had  enriched  her  life.  Then  his 
love  was  all  the  world,  but  now,  in  the 
moment  of  her  disenchantment,  how  she 
longed  for  the  tenderness  of  her  one  friend, 
—  the  friend  who  had  given  everything,  — 
the  benefactress  who,  deceived  and  disap- 
pointed, turned  away  her  face  in  shame. 
She  wanted  to  make  amends.  If  she  might 
only  say,  "  You  were  right,  but  I  knew  no 
better  then,"  and  feel  just  once,  in  under- 
standing and  sympathy,  the  pressure  of 
the  little  cripple's  cheek  against  her  hair, 
she  could  take  heart  against  the  world's 
vulgarity.  There  came  to  her  an  impulse 
to  go  back,  —  just  for  one  day,  —  to 
give  her  gratitude  expression  and  implore 
forgiveness  — 


236  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

The  shutting  of  a  door  at  the  other  end 
of  the  passage  broke  in  upon  her  thoughts. 
In  a  few  weeks  she  would  be  homeless.  It 
would  look  like  beggary  even  to  write  to 
Babblemouth  at  this  moment.  And  she 
was  only  Charity  Chance,  after  all.  She 
hastily  laid  aside  the  paper.  She  had  loi- 
tered too  long,  and  already  the  steps  of  Mrs. 
Cornelius  Porter  were  creaking  down  the 
stairs. 

It  was  now  the  early  spring,  and  Charity 
once  more  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
the  problem  of  how  to  earn  her  bread.  She 
was  to  leave  in  the  summer.  "That  will 
be  the  most  convenient,  and  give  both  par- 
ties time  to  look  around,"  explained  Mrs. 
Porter,  thinking  only  of  herself.  "And 
anything  that  I  can  say  as  to  your  compe- 
tency. Miss  Chance,  I  shall  be  very  pleased, 
I  am  sure."  At  once  the  girl  began  to 
scan  and  answer  advertisements.  But  the 
time  was  too  far  off,  and  no  one  ever 
applied  to  Mrs.  Porter. 

Now  that  the  manuscript  was  gone,  her 
evenings  were  lonely,   indeed.     The  little 


AS   NURSERY   GOVERNESS.    237 

group  of  phantoms  vanished  from  her 
hearth.  Their  story  faded  into  the  forgot- 
ten past.  She  had  no  hope  that  any  one 
would  print  it,  but  to  write  had  been  a 
relief,  and  out  of  the  ferment  of  her  emo- 
tions a  new  fable  began  to  take  shape  in  her 
imagination.  Then,  again,  she  forgot  her 
troubles  in  work. 

Yet  her  mind  was  alert  with  expectation. 
She  looked  for  no  great  tidings ;  neverthe- 
less, as  days  grew  into  weeks  and  no  answer 
came,  she  became  conscious  of  the  depth  of 
her  disappointment.  She  began  to  fear. 
The  parcel  might  have  gone  wrong.  Per- 
haps it  was  lost.  Perhaps,  unsolicited,  it 
should  not  have  been  sent,  and  therefore, 
being  useless,  had  not  been  returned.  She 
realised  that  it  was  nothing,  and  yet  she 
was  consumed  with  anxiety. 

One  evening,  having  laid  down  the 
supper-tray,  Maria  loitered. 

"  There  's  a  letter,  Miss  Chance,  came  last 
week.  It  was  left  in  the  kitchen.  I  meant 
to  bring  it  up,  and  then  I  forgot  it.  I  hope 
it  isn't  any  difference,  I  'm  sure." 


238  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

Fully  determined  to  demean  herself  no 
further,  Maria  withdrew  in  haste. 

The  publisher's  device  was  upon  the 
envelope.  So  there  was  to  be  a  verdict, 
after  all.  Now  that  the  time  was  come, 
although  she  had  no  hope,  her  agitation 
was  so  intense  that  her  trembling  fingers 
could  not  break  the  seal.  Then,  with  sud- 
den nervous  energy,  she  tore  it  open. 

The  contents  were  very  brief,  but  glanc- 
ing over  the  letter  her  eye  caught  in 
snatches  the  whole  pith  of  the  matter. 

"  Prepared  to  undertake  the  pitblieation  of 
tJie    same  .   .    .    of  course   with  an  author  s 
first   zvork   it   is   not  possible   to  offer  .   .   . 
royalty  of  I  o  per  cent,  upon  zvJiieli  we  zvould 
pay  a  small  sum  —  say  ^20 — ?ipon  account." 

A  commonplace  communication,  sure 
enough,  yet  one  which  read  with  all  the 
wealth  and  wonder  of  an  Arabian  romance. 
Twenty  pounds  !  Now  that  she  had  earned 
it  herself,  it  was  a  mine  as  inexhaustible 
as  the  Indies.  Her  imagination  ran  riot 
over  the  magnificence  of  the  sum.  And 
royalties   run   on   for  ever.     The  occasion 


AS   NURSERY   GOVERNESS.    239 

justified  a  revel,  and  she  took  it  in  elemen- 
tary arithmetic.  Twenty  pounds  !  She  had 
rewritten  the  book  in  six  weeks.  She 
would  finish  the  new  one  by  June.  Twenty 
and  twenty  make  forty,  and  then  her  stipend. 
She  would  walk  out  into  the  world  worth 
fifty  pounds.  Then  she  would  take  a  room, 
and  write,  and  write. 

But  the  latter  portion  of  the  letter  was 
still  unread. 

"  Should  you  accept  these  terms,  please 
reply  zvithotit  delay,  as  we  should  like  to  print 
at  once,  to  publish  in  our  series  during  H lay. " 

And  a  week  had  elapsed!  They  might 
refuse  to  stand  to  their  offer  now.  At  once 
she  wrote  a  letter  of  acceptance  loaded  with 
apologies.  They  replied  with  a  printed 
contract.  Then  proofs  showered  down  upon 
her.  Revises  followed  like  the  April  rain. 
At  last  came  that  early  copy  of  the  first 
book,  a  joy  like  the  gladness  of  a  new 
spring.  She  turned  it  over  in  her  hand, 
and  a  thrill  of  pride  leapt  within  her  bosom. 
She,  the  nameless  waif,  was  about  to  jus- 
tify her  being. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


THE    END. 


Charity  had  taken  apartments  —  two 
rooms  the  size  of  cupboards  —  in  a  little 
street  near  the  residence  of  the  Porters, 
and  here  she  worked  in  peace.  Her  only 
luxury  was  a  daily  paper,  which  she  searched 
for  a  review.  The  purchase  was  an  excite- 
ment, like  drawing  from  a  lucky-bag;  but 
once  or  twice  she  drew  a  prize.  They  were 
praising  her,  she  found,  in  terms  some- 
times extravagant,  which  pleased  her  none 
the  less.  But  work  and  solitude  began  to 
tell  upon  her.  She  wanted  to  speak  to  some 
one.  This  feeling  grew  so  strong  that  at 
last  she  determined  upon  an  expedition. 
She  would  call  upon  her  publisher. 

It  was  a  hot  July  morning,  and  she  walked 
down  Paternoster  Row. 


THE   END.  241 

The  firm  of  Pickering  and  Co.  announces 
itself  in  letters  of  blazing  gold,  which  he  who 
runs  may  read;  and  without  difficulty  she 
found  the  house.  She  entered  a  sort  of  ware- 
house, where  a  clerk  was  writing  at  a  desk, 
and  asked  if  Mr.  Pickering  was  disengaged. 

"What  name.''"  inquired  the  youth, 
shortly. 

"Miss  Chance." 

His  manner  changed.  Alighting  from 
his  high  stool  with  alacrity,  he  requested 
Charity  to  "step  this  way,  if  you  please," 
ushered  her  upstairs  to  a  waiting-room, 
invited  her  to  take  a  seat,  and  assured  her 
Mr.  Pickering  would  not  be  long. 

She  waited  some  minutes,  and  the  time 
seemed  endless.  Mr.  Pickering  probably 
cherished  no  great  desire  to  see  her.  She 
began  to  wonder  at  her  temerity  in  calling, 
and  to  wish  she  had  not  come.  Two  large 
etchings  adorned  the  wall,  and  she  got  up 
and  stood  looking  at  one  of  them.  Then 
the  door  behind  her  opened.  She  turned 
round  quickly,  and  was  face  to  face  with 
Alfred  Prentice. 

16 


242  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"Charity,"  he  cried  with  rapture,  just  as 
when  he  met  her  unexpectedly  in  the  wood. 
"  How  glad  I  am  !  I  was  going  to  write, 
and  came  here  to-day  to  be  sure  of  your 
address." 

As  he  stepped  towards  her,  she  recoiled 
with  aversion  from  his  outstretched  hand. 

At  once  he  stopped.  His  manner  changed. 
But  trouble  had  taught  her  much.  A  finer 
sense  had  replaced  the  freshness  of  her  inex- 
perience, and  when  he  spoke  again  she  could 
feel  the  vanity  at  work  beneath  his  words. 

"  I  wanted  to  congratulate  you  upon  your 
book.  It  is  fresh  and  sweet.  A  new  note. 
Delicate,  passionate,  and  shy,  like  the  whis- 
per of  some  woodland  bird.  Yet  fierce  in 
its  relentless  grip  on  an  inevitable  human 
destiny." 

His  voice  sank  into  a  whisper  as  he  spoke 
of  the  bird  he  did  not  specify,  and  he 
clenched  his  fists  and  crushed  the  tragedy 
of  all  humanity  between  his  set  teeth. 

Then  he  thought  of  himself,  and  became 
low  and  mellow  as  of  old. 

"But  above  all,  I  felt  something  due  to 


THE   END.  243 

you,  and  still  more  to  my  own  heart. 
When  we  loved  each  other  so  madly,  and 
I  would  have  carried  you  away,"  —  he  raised 
his  hands  towards  heaven  to  show  how  far 
he  would  have  carried  her,  —  "the  greatness 
of  your  soul  overcame  me.  You  showed 
me  the  crime  I  was  committing,  and  the 
inevitable  consequence.  I  knew  my  weak- 
ness, and  at  least  had  strength  of  mind  to 
flee.  Your  story  touched  me  deeply.  I 
saw  your  soul  suffering  the  burden  of  an- 
other's wrong,  and  my  heart  melted  with 
pity.  I  could  not  write.  Then,  the  sorrow 
of  my  own  poor  life  was  thrown  open  to  the 
world.     Ah!  sad,  sad!     All  is  sad!" 

Moved  by  the  picture  of  his  own  magna- 
nimity, he  was  quite  overcome.  His  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  Unable  to  proceed,  he 
turned  away  and  covered  his  face  in'  his 
hands. 

The  girl  took  one  quick,  impulsive  step 
towards  him.  Doubtless  he  loved  her,  what- 
ever his  misfortunes,  and  love  demanded 
sympathy  at  least.  Then  the  recollection 
of  his  coldness  to  her  distress  rushed  into 


244  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

her  mind.  He  could  never  have  loved  her. 
With  sudden  insight  she  perceived  that  this 
man  deceived  himself,  and  had  no  stake  in 
human  life.  Imagination  and  he  played 
a  game  of  chance,  with  mere  words  for 
counters. 

Recalled  to  himself  by  her  movement,  he 
came  towards  her. 

"  Please  do  not  speak  to  me,  Mr.  Pren- 
tice," she  cried  impatiently.  "The  past  is 
gone  and  better  forgotten." 

Her  tone  was  so  angry  and  contemptuous 
that  it  hurt  his  pride,  but  the  smart  of  the 
injury  completely  restored  him.  He  con- 
tinued to  explain  himself. 

"Then  your  book  came  into  my  hand. 
Again  I  was  about  to  write  when  I  read  of 
the  terrible  affair  at  Babblemouth.  I  dared 
not  intrude  upon  your  sorrow  at  such  a 
moment  —  " 

"What  do  you  mean.^"  she  interrupted 
him. 

He  looked  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"  Is  it  possible  you  have  not  heard  of 
Poltimore-Briggs  .-* " 


THE   END.  245 

"I  have  heard  nothing." 

At  once  his  manner  became  quite  com- 
monplace. He  had  no  emotion  to  expend 
on  a  mere  historical  fact. 

"  He  committed  suicide  by  throwing  him- 
self over  the  cliff.  The  jury  brought  in  an 
open  verdict,  but  his  affairs  were  in  an 
awful  state,  and  everybody  knows  what 
really  happened.  He  had  been  living  on 
the  money  of  your  little  crippled  friend  for 
years.  He  was  her  trustee,  and  spent  every 
penny  or  lost  it  in  speculations.  They 
thought  he  had  run  away.  That  yacht  we 
sailed  in  was  seized  and  sold.  They  found 
his  body  by  the  rocks  where  we  lay  be- 
calmed after  he  had  been  gone  a  week. " 

"Mr.  Pickering  will  see  you  now, "  said 
a  voice  beside  her. 

The  clerk  was  standing  by  her  elbow. 
She  had  not  heard  him  come  into  the  room. 
Like  a  person  hypnotised  and  obeying  a 
suggestion,  she  followed  him  along  a  pas- 
sage, and  was  shown  into  an  office.  As  she 
entered,  a  large  man  with  red  hair  rose 
from  his  chair  behind  a  table  strewn  with 


246  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

books  and  papers,  and  greeted  her  most 
cordially. 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Chance.^  I  am 
most  happy  to  make  your  acquaintance. 
You  want  to  hear  about  your  book.  Well, 
I  am  glad  to  say  it  is  going  well,  —  fairly 
well.  We  've  pushed  it  in  every  way  — 
advertised  it  heavily  —  almost  too  heavily, 
perhaps."  Here  he  smiled  benignly. 
"And  it  has  been  well  reviewed.  You 
would  like  to  see  some  notices." 

He  laid  upon  the  table  before  her  a  large 
volume  into  which  press-cuttings  had  been 
pasted. 

It  should  have  been  a  moment  of  eager 
anxiety  and  triumph,  but  Charity  could  not 
read  a  word.  Mr.  Pickering  was  there  as 
large  as  life.  She  saw  him.  She  heard 
clearly  every  word  he  uttered,  and  she 
stared  upon  the  open  page.  But  she  was 
not  there  at  all.  This  was  all  a  dream. 
The  real  Charity  was  far  away  at  Babble- 
combe  with  poor  Aunt  Helen,  deceived  and 
penniless !  What  could  become  of  her  in 
such  a  situation.'' 


THE   END.  247 

Mr.  Pickering  stood  rubbing  his  hands. 

"And  what  are  you  doing  now,  Miss 
Chance.^"  he  asked  witli  friendly  conde- 
scension. 

There  was  a  pause  whilst  the  question 
pierced  its  way  through  her  preoccupation. 
A  minute  later  she  remembered  having 
heard  it,  and  replied  in  haste,  — 

"I  am  finishing  another  book." 

"We  shall  be  very  pleased,  indeed,  to 
see  it.  Miss  Chance." 

He  nodded  his  head,  and  in  smiling 
expectation  awaited  her  reply. 

But  Charity  did  not  answer.  How  could 
poor  Aunt  Helen  support  the  want  of  those 
requirements  which  wealth  had  always  pro- 
vided.-' That  was  the  thought  which  kept 
her  dumb. 

Such  reticence  on  the  part  of  a  budding 
authoress  was  rare.  A  suspicion  crossed 
the  mind  of  Mr.  Pickering  that  Charity 
must  have  been  approached  from  elsewhere. 

"Of  course.  Miss  Chance,"  he  explained 
in  quite  a  lordly  way,  "we  can  do  much 
better  for   you   with  a  second   book.     We 


248  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

should  increase  the  royalty  and  the  ad- 
vance. Of  this  I  am  quite  sure,  no  one  in 
the  trade  could  do  better  for  you  than  we." 

Still  no  response.  Nothing  but  a  direct 
question  could  win  a  word  from  Charity. 

"We  might  be  able  to  run  it  in  our  mag- 
azine." He  went  on  now  very  serious,  and 
stroking  his  fat  chin.  "  On  consideration, 
I  think  we  should  like  to  look  at  what  you 
have  done  at  once.  If  it  is  suitable,  and 
we  give  you,  say,  a  hundred  pounds  for 
serial  publication,  and  then  —  " 

The  girl  looked  up  with  disconcerting 
suddenness. 

"How  quickly  could  you  let  me  know?" 
she  asked. 

"  In  the  course  of  a  day  or  so  we  would 
communicate  our  —  " 

She  gave  him  no  time  to  finish  his 
sentence. 

"I  will  fetch  it  at  once  and  bring  it  to 
you.  I  hope  there  will  be  no  delay.  I  am 
going  into  the  country.  I  will  give  you 
my  address. " 

She  glanced  at   the  table.      He  handed 


THE   END.  249 

her  paper  and  a  pencil,  and  she  wrote: 
C/o  Miss  Graham,  Babblecombe  House,  Bab- 
hlemouth.  Then  before  he  could  cross  the 
room  to  open  the  door  for  her,  she  was  fly- 
ing down  the  stairs. 

"Somebody  has  made  that  girl  an  offer," 
he  muttered  to  himself.  "  I  should  really 
like  to  know  how  much  they  have  said." 

But  Charity  had  only  one  thought,  —  to 
bring  her  precious  manuscript  and  get  to 
Babblecombe  as  quickly  as  she  could.  She 
looked  for  no  train.  She  made  no  plan  ;  but 
hurried  thither  and  back,  and  at  last  must 
wait  an  hour  upon  the  platform  before  she 
could  depart. 

She  would  return,  and  throw  her  arms 
around  the  little  cripple's  neck,  without 
words  or  explanation,  trusting  only  to  the 
abiding  power  of  their  love.  And  she 
would  keep  her  in  poverty.  And  pay  the 
debt  of  many  years.  And  tend  her  as  no 
hireling  hands  can  ever  tend. 

It  was  evening  when  she  reached  the  hill- 
top and  once  more  looked  down  upon  the 


250  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

little  mansion  in  the  coombe.  How  quiet 
it  all  was !  Not  a  leaf  of  the  ivy  stirred. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  garden,  and  Jan 
Sprake  was  not  in  the  yard. 

She  had  brought  nothing  home,  and  above 
the  cottages  she  stopped  the  hired  fly  she 
had  taken  at  the  station,  and  got  out.  She 
would  rather  walk  down  unobserved. 

The  door  was  open,  and  she  went  in  as  if 
she  had  but  come  back  from  the  town.  She 
wandered  across  the  hall  and  into  the 
drawing-room.  The  French  window  was 
closed  and  fastened,  and  the  place  had  the 
close  air  and  wore  the  dusty  look  of  a  room 
not  used. 

A  spirit  of  change  and  disaster  brooded 
everywhere.  The  things  remained  unal- 
tered, but  something  had  fled.  No  open 
book  lay  upon  the  table,  no  paper  had  been 
dropped  in  haste  upon  the  floor.  And  the 
chairs  stood  back  against  the  wall,  lacking 
significance. 

She  heard  a  sound,  — a  man's  step  has- 
tening out  of  the  house.  She  ran  back, 
just  in  time  to  catch  sight  of  the  departing 


% 


THE   END.  251 

figure  of  Bibberly,  the  bluff,  fox-hunting, 
local  practitioner,  whom  Miss  Graham 
regarded  with  contempt  bordering  on  abhor- 
rence. Then  Aunt  Helen  must  be  ill,  — 
ill  indeed  to  submit  to  his  presence.  How 
carefully  he  closed  the  door  to  make  no 
noise! 

She  went  upstairs  and  listened.  She 
was  afraid  this  suddenness  of  arrival  might 
be  ill-timed,  and  she  did  not  know  what  to 
do.  From  the  room  where  Miss  Graham 
used  to  sleep  came  a  low  moan. 

Charity  stealthily  opened  the  door  and 
looked  in.  The  little  cripple  lay  upon  a 
low  chair  beside  the  open  window.  The 
evening  breeze  bulged  the  white  curtain  and 
fanned  her  face.  Her  cheek  was  yellow 
like  parchment,  and  bloodless  like  death. 
Yet  her  senses  were  alert,  for  the  shrewd 
grey  eyes,  brighter  than  ever  and  very 
large,  glanced  round  as  the  quickening  cur- 
rent of  air  told  her  that  some  one  was 
silently  entering  the  room.  At  once  they 
glistened  with  delight.  She  had  gone  too 
far  upon  the  journey  of  life  to  feel  surprise. 


252  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

She  tried  to  beckon  with  her  finger  as  of 
old. 

Charity  ran  to  her. 

"  I  was  just  thinking  of  you,  child.  Kiss 
me,  Charity.  Put  your  hair  against  my 
cheek.  I  knew  you  would  come.  Graham 
has  been  reading  to  me,  Charity.  Charity, 
you  have  it  all,  dear." 

She  quivered  with  excitement.  In  the 
intensity  of  her  feeling  her  voice  broke 
into  a  whisper. 

The  girl  did  not  understand. 

"Don't  you  remember  what  I  once  said.-* 
Soul,  or  passion,  or  a  great  heart.  Gra- 
ham has  been  reading  to  me  —  the  book  — 
my  book — for  I  made  you,  child.  He  was 
sent  for  when  the  —  when  the  trouble  came, 
and  he  stays  here  for  the  present.  He  sat 
up  with  me  last  night.  I  made  him  go  and 
lie  down.  I  cannot  sleep  because  of  the 
pain,  and  the  maid  has  run  in  for  the 
draught.  The  Mortimers  have  gone  to  a 
garden-party  to-day,  and  so  I  was  alone.  I 
was  thinking  of  you.  I  knew  you  would 
come." 


THE   END.  253 

She  paused,  and  gazed  into  Charity's 
eyes  with  such  affection  that  the  girl  could 
not  speak. 

"It  will  be  a  very  short  time  now, 
Charity,"  she  said  sadly.  "I  am  quite 
ready,  and  have  thought  of  everything. 
But  I  don't  want  to  go.  I  want  to  stay —  I 
want  to  stay  more  than  ever." 

Her  thin  hands  firmly  clutched  the  girl's 
shoulders,  as  though  upon  the  secure  sta- 
bility of  that  young  life  her  drifting  spirit 
could  anchor  itself  to  earth.  Then  she 
became  resigned. 

"But  everything  is  arranged,  and  my 
mind  is  at  peace.  The  thought  of  John 
Sprake  troubled  me.  For  when  the  horses 
had  to  be  sold,  what  was  he  to  do .''  And 
he  had  been  here  twenty  years,  always 
faithful  and  safe.  But  what  do  you  think, 
Charity.?  He  has  taken  the  George  Hotel! 
I  wrote  to  the  justices  about  him.  He  has 
been  really  a  wonderful  man,  so  steady  and 
saving.  I  can't  think  how  he  saved  it  all 
on  fifteen  shillings  a  week.  But  it  was  such 
a  relief,  child."     One  illusion  at  least  had 


254  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

never  been  dispelled,  and  she  smiled  upon 
the  girl  as  she  went  on.  "  Charity,  there 
is  the  house  and  land,  and  seven  hundred 
pounds  in  the  bank  that  was  not  drawn  out. 
That  will  keep  you,  just  keep  you,  dear." 

Suddenly  she  summoned  all  her  energy. 
She  raised  herself  in  the  chair.  She  spoke 
and  pointed  in  the  old  way  that  Charity  had 
never  dared  to  disobey. 

"Go  and  knock  at  Graham's  door,  child. 
Tell  him  to  come  at  once." 

Graham  came  in  haste.  He  and  the  girl 
stood  side  by  side,  and  through  the  window 
shone  the  last  glow  of  the  evening  sun.  It 
astonished  Charity  to  see  how  greatly  he 
was  changed.  A  new  ruddiness  of  travel 
was  on  his  face.  Trouble  had  hardened  his 
will  and  given  character  to  his  features. 

"What  did  you  want,  Aunt  Helen.''"  he 
said  tenderly. 

Miss  Graham  looked  at  them,  and  the  old 
desire  came  back.  One  last  gleam  of 
romance  flashed  from  her  departing  soul, 
vivid  as  the  momentary  streak  of  flame  that 
sets  on  fire  a  western  cloud. 


THE   END.  255 

"Marry,"  she  cried, — "marry  at  once. 
There  will  yet  be  time.  And  I  shall  see 
the  wish  of  my  heart." 

He  turned  towards  the  girl  in  doubt. 
Even  if  she  would  marry  him,  could  he  dare 
to  take  advantage  of  the  weakness  of  this 
moment  ? 

"Marry!"  repeated  the  little  cripple, 
with  wilder  urgency. 

The  girl  saw  his  hesitation.  He  was 
poor  and  unfortunate.  The  disgrace  and 
death  of  his  father  must  for  ever  overshadow 
him  like  a  cloud.  She  could  understand  all 
that.  Her  heart  went  out  towards  him  with 
a  force  of  love  it  could  never  have  known 
in  the  old  summer  days.  She  could  com- 
fort him,  and  help  him, — yes,  and  earn 
money  for  him,  too,  if  he  would  only  ask 
her  now.  But  the  time  was  past.  She  also 
had  lost  an  illusion.  Nothing  could  bring 
back  that. 

As  he  looked,  the  light  of  love  came  into 
his  eyes. 

"Charity,"  he  whispered  quickly,  "we 
have  never  broken  it  off. " 


256  CHARITY   CHANCE. 

"We  have  never  broken  it  off,"  she 
echoed. 

With  a  smile  of  satisfaction  the  little 
cripple  sank  back  exhausted  and  said  no 
more.  She  had  got  the  wish  of  her  heart, 
and  that  night  she  slept. 

In  the  cold  grey  of  early  morning  she 
passed  away  content. 

They  were  married  that  summer  in  the 
little  church  beside  the  cliff  looking  down 
upon  the  quay,  where  Charity  was  left  a 
waif.  No  one  ever  knew  whence  she  came. 
They  sold  the  little  mansion,  arid  left  Bab- 
blemouth  at  once,  and  no  one  asked  whither 
they  went. 

Her  signature  is  on  the  register,  and  that 
is  all. 

That  was  the  last  of  Charity  Chance. 


Pl'i 

5510? 


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